


Sketches in Between

by q_19



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1931748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_19/pseuds/q_19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternating Quinn and Carrie POVs set during the 4 month gap. Starts right after the end scene in Sketches in Q but not totally necessary to read it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quinn I

Author’s note: Alternating Quinn and Carrie POVs set during the 4 month gap. Starts right after the end scene in Sketches in Q but not totally necessary to read it. 

\---------  
Quinn I  
\---------

Quinn wakes, disoriented for a moment before remembering he is sleeping on the couch at Carrie’s cabin. Memories of the previous day come rushing back quickly - picking Carrie up from the airport and bringing her there, talking with her on the deck, carrying her to bed. It is a relief just to wake up knowing she is here, safe and in the country. Everything else is in the air - Quinn is sure Adal’s guys will be looking for her soon, that she will be thoroughly debriefed and possibly put right back to work, no matter how fucked up she is from the last operation. 

He resists the urge to go check on her, doesn’t want to disturb her if she’s still sleeping. She probably hasn’t slept much at all since she went to Tehran; she certainly looked exhausted when he picked her up at the airport. 

Quinn makes some coffee, sits out on the deck and looks out over the lake. He thinks about how different things are being there now as opposed to eating cold tuna by himself, struggling with one of the more important decisions of his life. It was the first time he had ever said no to his employer, the first time he saved a life instead of taking one. 

He remembers how happy she looked; it was the only time he had ever seen her content, relaxed. That was what ultimately made his decision so easy - he wasn’t going to be the one to ruin that, fuck things up for her. 

Now Brody’s dead anyways and Quinn’s here instead, at her and Brody’s place. He wonders what that means, if he’s reading too much into the situation. He brought her here so she would be safe. He’s less sure why he’s made it his duty. Now that Carrie’s home and safe it should be time for him to go, that’s what he’s been telling himself all along. But where would he go? He’s pretty sure he’s done with Adal and possibly with the CIA - it’s just not what he believes in any more. So he can’t just throw himself back into the job like he usually does. 

And then there’s Carrie. Quinn knows at some point he lost grip of his tightly controlled emotions - he got attached. Blew basic rule number one in his line of life. But he has never known anyone like her and he has met all sorts. And whatever it is, Quinn’s not sure he can let go. WIth Saul gone there’s no one at the Agency looking out for her and she needs someone on her side. He’s equally not sure he can be that person.

Quinn is startled out of his thoughts when the door opens and Carrie steps outside with a mug of coffee.

“You make shitty coffee, Quinn,” she says, sitting down next to him. 

“Even shitty coffee is still coffee,” he replies. “How are you feeling?” 

Carrie shrugs, still looks wan and tired. “I don’t know,” she answers.

Quinn doesn’t respond, can’t think of anything helpful to say. Wonders if she still wants to talk or if she’s decided he’s not the guy for heart to hearts. 

They sit in silence for awhile, drinking bad coffee and looking out over the lake. Quinn sneaks a look over at Carrie and she seems to be elsewhere. He wonders if she’s thinking about her and Brody’s last trip to the cabin, about what happened in Iran, about all the shit she’s gone through just to arrive at this moment. Whatever she’s thinking, Carrie looks lost and small and Quinn resists the urge to tuck her up against him like he had the night before. 

“I’ll go make some breakfast,” he says, looking for a way to avoid his impulses. 

Carrie looks up, gives him a one-eyed squint. “Didn’t see you as a stay and make breakfast kind of guy,” she mutters. 

Quinn raises his eyebrows, gives her a shrug. “Maybe a tiger can change his stripes after all,” he answers.

Carrie doesn’t respond but looks at him appraisingly until he gets up and goes inside. 

Quinn picks up a frying pan, thinks how she is right as usual, that he can’t remember the last time he stayed over for breakfast anywhere. He can’t even remember the last time he made breakfast for himself, much less for someone else. But he figures he can scramble an egg as well as the next guy and that Carrie probably won’t give a shit about what he cooks up.

So he cracks some eggs into a pan, puts some bread in the toaster. While the eggs are cooking he dumps the rest of the coffee and puts some more on, tries to make it less shitty this time. 

He tries to avoid thinking about Carrie, focus on the menial process of making food. But it’s hard not to continually wonder what he’s doing here, where this is all going. Quinn keeps trying to convince himself that he’s just here until he’s sure Carrie’s okay and then he can disappear, uncomplicate things. It doesn’t seem to be working though.

Quinn divvies the food up onto plates, thinks to himself that it at least looks edible. But when he opens the door to pass a plate out to Carrie he sees only her empty mug. 

Quinn scans the area for her, can’t see any wisps of blonde amongst the trees. He sits and tries to eat some eggs but the food is suddenly unappealing due to a nervous gnawing in his stomach. 

He tries to talk himself out of his slight anxiety, tells himself that she’s just gone for a walk, that she knows the area well, that she can take care of herself. It helps a bit but the eggs remain uneaten. Instead he refills his coffee and tries to convince himself to be patient.

\---------

Nine hours later Quinn is completely out of patience. He figures it was gone about an hour in but he didn’t start searching for her until she had been gone for nearly seven hours. Up to that point he had taken it as a challenge to his mental strength, holding off on prematurely searching for her. But by the time it was mid-afternoon and getting cooler Quinn became acutely aware that the sun would be setting in a few hours and Carrie had only been wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants when she took off.

Now it’s nearly dark and he’s almost made it all the way around the lake, calling her name loudly the whole time. There have been few clues, some tracks that could have been Carrie or pretty much anyone else. Quinn tries to not think about possibilities, does his best to ignore mental images of a slight blonde walking into the water until nothing is left. He tells himself she just needed some time to herself, that she got lost, that she doesn’t realize the time. Except he’s been telling himself this the whole fucking day now and the story’s getting old. 

By the time dusk has set in Quinn is internally freaking out. He’s having a hard time controlling his rampant thoughts, a mash of illogical concerns about injuries, wild animals, hypothermia. Worry is something he hasn’t been much subjected to in a long time. There’s not a lot to worry about when there’s no one in your life. 

But he is worried as fuck about Carrie right now, has been fucking worried about her for what seems like forever now. Months at least. God. How the fuck did this happen to him of all people? He had practiced perfect detachment for so long. 

“Carrie!” he yells, again and again. But he knows she won’t respond even if she can hear him. If she wanted to be found she would have gone back to the cabin. Which is still a possibility, but Quinn hasn’t seen the lights go on inside. 

He is starting to consider giving up, going back and waiting for her, starting a new search in the morning when he hears something, an odd noise out by the water. He thinks it’s likely a bird, maybe a squirrel but it’s all he’s heard other than leaves and water so he goes to check it out. 

The path disappears as he heads towards the water; a branch nearly pokes him in the eye before he pulls out a small but powerful light. Quinn gets to the end of the trees, sees the lake just below him, with a small steep bank separating him from the sandy shore. He shines his light across the shoreline, sees someone sitting by the lake and his heart quickens. 

“Carrie?” he calls, slowly approaching. 

He doesn’t hear any response but he can see that it’s her, can hear that she’s crying. She doesn’t look up even as he walks up close to her and sits, putting his arm around her shaking shoulders. 

“Jesus, Carrie. You’re freezing,” he says. Her t-shirt is a bit damp and her skin is cold and clammy. He takes off his coat and puts it around her shoulders but she doesn’t stop shivering.

“Fuck off, Quinn,” she finally says between sobs. “Leave me alone.” 

Quinn frowns, realizes he smells booze on her breath. He turns his light back on and shines it at their feet, sees an empty bottle of vodka and a full bottle of pills. Quinn picks up the pills, reads the prescription. Oxycontin, properly prescribed - probably from when he shot her. The bottle appears to be completely full and he breathes a sigh of relief as he pockets it and turns to face her. 

“So you can kill yourself?” he asks. “That’s not going to fucking happen.” 

Carrie finally looks up and he can see a contortion of sadness and fury on her red, tear-swollen face. “It could,” she says stubbornly. 

Quinn shakes his head again her hair, tries to pull her up against him. “No fucking way, Carrie. Not on my watch,” he replies. 

“I’m not on your fucking watch, Quinn,” she snaps in his face, shoving him out of her space.

He looks at her calmly but she turns her head the other way, refusing to meet his eye. “The hell you’re not, it’s not up to you,” he says. “I decide who’s on my watch.” 

Carrie frowns, turns back to sneer at him. “Why the hell are you here anyways Quinn? Why the fuck are you even bothering?” she yells in his face. “What is it to you if this is it, the story of my life. Crazy CIA agent and her terrorist obsession. They hang him, she kills herself because she realizes that’s all she fucking had. That and a fucking mental disorder that makes everything go to shit. So what do you care if the crazy bitch you were forced to work with ODs? It’s almost fucking expected. You’ll disappear, forget all this shit, never be seen again anyhow.” 

Quinn stares, wonders if this is what she really thinks or if it’s the combination of her current mental state and the booze. Whatever it is, it is surprisingly painful to hear her say it, because it’s mostly true. He’s seen a lot of casualties, agents that cracked under pressure, ones that fucked up. They all ended up dead and he rarely thought twice about them. They fucked up, they knew the consequences. 

But this is different. He knows he will never forget Carrie, will never forgive himself if it happens, if he lets her die. Quinn knows he hasn’t been his usual reliable self lately. He fucked up in Caracas and he really fucked up when he let them take Carrie from right under his watch. But whatever happens from here on in, he vows to protect her, whether she wants it or not. Because the world would be a worse place without her in it. 

Carrie is fighting back tears as he pulls her up against his side, puts his arm back around her shoulders. She is shaky and breathing angrily in short bursts but she doesn’t resist. 

Quinn stays silent, tries to come up with a coherent response. He wishes he could just tell her she snuck into his heart and it’s going to break if he loses her. But that’s not the kind of thing he says, especially not to Carrie. 

“I’ve given up on shit before and I’ve regretted it,” he finally says. “I won’t give up on you, Carrie, and I won’t let you give up on yourself. Because I can’t think of anything I would regret more.”

Carrie doesn’t respond, keeps crying quietly but he can feel her body loosen up a bit and some of the tension in her dissipates. 

“I can’t imagine how you feel right now. But you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he continues. “Hell, you’re the best intelligence officer I’ve ever met. You’re smart, you have ungodly intuition, and you’re fucking fearless. You can’t give up because of this shit. If you do, we all lose. This Javadi thing will fall to pieces and undo everything you’ve fought so hard for, the possibility of peace. But more than that, we’d lose you, Carrie. And that would really be a fucking loss.” 

Carrie looks up at him skeptically, suspicion in her eyes. She studies him for awhile in silence and he wonders for the millionth time what the fuck is going on in her head.

“You’re just saying nice things so I won’t kill myself,” she finally says with a scowl. 

Quinn laughs, he can’t help himself. She certainly has a way with words. “Maybe. But it’s all true,” he answers. 

Carrie doesn’t reply but does mostly stop crying. She’s still shaking but he thinks it might just be near hypothermia. It’s a cold night and she was out all day in just a light shirt. His jacket barely seems to be making a difference - he has to get her moving. 

“You’re freezing, Carrie. Let’s go back, warm you up,” he says, tugging at her gently. 

Carrie stands up with him, lets him guide her back to the trail. It’s night by this point but the moon is bright enough to lead their way. Quinn puts his light away and they walk back to the cabin in the darkness. She doesn’t resist his arm over her shoulders and he pretends to himself that he’s just trying to confer body heat. 

“I could never forget you, Carrie,” he says quietly after they have been walking in silence for awhile. “No fucking way.” 

She huffs as if in disbelief and tenses for a moment but then relaxes a bit, leaning her head against his shoulder as they walk. 

Quinn smiles to himself, thinks how strange it is he’s taken on this job, even stranger that it feels good, comfortable. He looks down at Carrie, gives in to impulse and puts a light kiss to her hair. He holds his breath for a second but she doesn’t react, doesn’t push away and right then he knows his fate is sealed. 

No more fuck ups now, he tells himself. He’s finally found a mission that matters.

\----------


	2. Carrie I

\---------  
Carrie I  
\---------

Carrie slams the door shut and feels the house shake for a moment. It’s satisfying but not nearly enough. 

Hot, angry tears are trailing down her face, have been since she left the debrief at Langley. Actually it was more like a fucking interrogation than a debrief with Adal running things. Two days of endless questions, all focused on what Adal calls her ‘lone wolf problem’ - her tendency to do what she thinks is right no matter the orders. 

How many times did she have to say yes I went against orders; yes I was on the phone giving him info on the Mossad agents; yes I fucking gave him a chance to finish the job we sent him there for. But now that Javadi is firmly in place Adal and Lockhart don’t seem to remember how she fucking put him there, how this was all her and Saul right from the start. Which should give her some fucking leeway. Except Saul is gone, left without a goodbye and she can see where things are going for her. 

Deja vu all over again. Administrative leave while they reassess her role in the operation, same shit, different op. They could get rid of her anytime and she knows Adal is ruthless, has none of Saul’s humanity or any loyalty towards her. So all this shit, all this pain to be back at square zero, wondering if she has a job, wondering if she even gives a flying fuck anymore.

Right now she doesn’t care about Javadi, about fucking world peace. All she can think of is what she lost, all that she’ll never have. Yeah, it was a dream, a fucking fantasy but for a moment she believed it - that they could have a life together, that she could have a chance at love. 

And now she has nothing. Fuck all. No job, no life, no Brody. Just a terrifying possibility growing in her, something she has no capacity to deal with - especially right now. 

Right up to the point when Brody died Carrie had herself convinced that it could work out. She could quit her job and they could be a together. It would be hard to explain to her family but doable - they always thought her job was too high stress anyhow so they would have been happy to see her to settle down into a calmer routine. 

But now she would be a single mom with a mental disorder, possibly unemployed. She wouldn’t be able to explain it to her family because it’s pretty much all classified. And how the fuck could she explain it when she doesn’t understand it herself? Well, I’m having the baby of a notorious terrorist suspect and murderer and I’m keeping it because I was fucking in love with him and this is all I have left. Oh and by the way I don’t want to have the baby, I don’t have any good feelings about this and I can’t be a mother. 

Yeah, that would be a fucking great conversation. No wonder she’s so exhausted, sad, hopeless. This was the culmination of her life’s work and what did she get out of it? Nothing, by the looks of things. 

Carrie looks up at the Brody wall and something bursts in her. She starts pulling everything off the wall, ripping everything down, leaving it scattered in pieces on the floor. When it’s all off the wall she sits down in the middle of mess, sobbing. Her head to her knees, she drains herself of tears. 

\---------

Hours later Carrie drags herself to bed, crawls in and lays there thinking about him, about how much she misses him already, about her non-existent future. If she’d taken the pills at the lake it could have all been over, she would have avoided the debrief, solved all her problems permanently. 

But she hadn’t been sure and had almost been relieved when Quinn finally found her. It was only then she realized she’d been waiting for him, hadn’t taken the pills because he would have been the one to find her and would have blamed himself. Which is stupid because it wouldn’t have been his fault. But even so, at the time she had held off for his sake, remembered finding her dad after he attempted suicide one Thanksgiving, recalled the angry hopeless feeling that had followed. And for just a moment she had remembered that Quinn already had a wounded conscience, didn’t need another cross to bear.

But now she didn’t have any pharmaceuticals strong enough to kill her immediately and the long painful death of Tylenol overdose is something she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Maybe my heart can just stop in my sleep, she thinks. Of course she has a weapon in the house but doesn’t want to leave a mess for Maggie or her dad to clean up. 

Carrie knows from experience that this is the time, before the depths of depression show up. By then she won’t have the energy to do anything, much less kill herself. She feels it coming - the hopelessness and angry apathy have already set in and the endless exhausted irritability is just around the corner. 

She finally falls asleep thinking about Brody, about how hard she tried for him. But what seems like mere minutes later she is awakened by the muffled sound of a footstep. 

Carrie reaches for the weapon in her bedside table, points it at the bedroom door. She isn’t going through this shit again - getting kidnapped from her own bed once is enough. She wonders who it is this time, thinks Adal might have sent some thug to get rid of her so he doesn’t have to bother with the paperwork. 

The doorknob turns and she disarms the safety, aims for a kill shot with her finger on the trigger. If it was Maggie or her dad they would have called out for her already and they aren’t exactly the show up in the middle of the night types. 

The door opens quietly and she is steady with the gun. “Stop there or I’ll shoot!” she yells at the intruder. 

“Jesus, Carrie! Don’t shoot, it’s just me,” Quinn says, his hands in the air.

Carrie glowers at him, keeps the gun in place.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house in the middle of the night Quinn?” she asks. 

Quinn walks over casually and takes the gun from her, flicking the safety on and putting it back in its drawer. Carrie scowls at him, at his nerve as he sits on the edge of the bed. He looks tense and it takes him a long time to answer her question. 

“I just wanted to check on you,” he finally says. 

“You could have fucking called,” she responds. “You didn’t have to break in.”

Quinn looks at her funny. “Your home lines have been torn out. And you’re not answering your cell,” he says. 

Carrie stops for a moment, doesn’t really remember tearing out the phone lines but thinks it’s possible. Likely even. Still, why was he sneaking into her place? 

“Well ever heard of knocking?” she asks. “It’s what normal people do.” 

Quinn gives her an expressionless look. “We’re not normal people, Carrie,” he says. “And I didn’t want to disturb you, I just wanted to make sure...” 

He trails off but she knows what he means. 

“You wanted to make sure I wasn’t dead,” she finishes for him. 

Quinn frowns and shakes his head. “No, just that you’re okay,” he says without much conviction. 

“Well I’m fine,” she counters with a shrug. “So you can leave now.” 

He gives her the funny look again. “Are you sure, Carrie?” he asks. “How did the debrief go?” 

She scowls. “I thought you didn’t want to disturb me, Quinn,” she says. 

He doesn’t respond and Carrie lets the silence hang for a few minutes. But Quinn doesn’t seem to be giving up or leaving. And she is still pissed enough to tell him. 

“It was fucking shitty alright,” she snaps. “Two days of Adal giving me shit for disobeying orders, for telling Brody they were going to kill him. What the fuck do they think got him to go in there in the end? He took out Akbari because I gave him the chance. But now it’s all about how I fucked up.” 

Quinn looks a bit startled, maybe he wasn’t expecting her to say anything. But then he frowns. “That’s bullshit, Carrie. You ran him and he completed the mission, that should be that. Fuck Adal, he just doesn’t like that you were right,” he says. 

Carrie gives him a sideways look. She remembers when Quinn flipped out on her for going on her intuition, that night Brody had made her at the hotel bar. At least he learns, she thinks to herself.

“So now what?” he asks. 

Carrie makes a who knows gesture with her hands. “Administrative leave until they figure out how to get rid of me,” she says. “Then, who knows? Unemployed single mother right? Sounds like a lot to look forward to.” 

Quinn frowns, gives her a stern look. She knows a lecture’s coming so she glares at him and guards herself with mental armour.

“First, Carrie, this is just Adal’s little power game. They know exactly how effective you are, they’re going to need you - either to run Javadi or for whatever’s down the line. You’d think they learned that lesson the first time around, ” he says. “Second, who the fuck cares about what they do? The CIA doesn’t own you, Carrie. You’re more than that.”

“Bullshit, Quinn. I’m exactly that. I don’t have anything else. And without it, with this whole Brody shitshow over, that’s all I was good for,” she spits back. “Anyways, this isn’t your problem, Quinn. Go home, leave me alone. I’m fine, I’m a fucking big girl and I can take care of myself.” 

Quinn looks to be holding back anger, seems to be grinding his teeth as he stares at her. 

“I would have come earlier but I’m on an assignment,” he finally says with a sigh. “But it’s in the area so I should be able to come by most days. Just might be late sometimes.” 

Carrie raises her eyebrows in disbelief, can he not hear her? 

“You’re not listening, Quinn,” she repeats. “I said leave me the fuck alone.” 

Quinn smiles mildly, pats her hand. “No fucking way, Carrie,” he says kindly, but with some steel in his voice. “And while we’re at it, I need you to make me a promise.” 

Carrie is at a loss. Who the hell breaks into her house and starts telling her what to do? Well other than fucking Javadi’s guys. 

“Just leave, Quinn. Take your suddenly overactive conscience and find something to do other than shooting people for a living. Get far away from here and just forget about all this shit,” she shouts at his infuriatingly calm face. Carrie is close to tears and she doesn’t want him to see her cry again. He’s already seen too much, gotten too close. 

“One promise and I’m gone, Carrie. Well, at least until tomorrow,” he says evenly. 

“Or what? What if I don’t fucking promise?” she snarls. 

“Then I stay,” he says. “Until you do.” 

Carrie screws her face up into a ball of frustration, wants to hit him. She even raises her fist but he catches it easily and she stops trying, knows it’s futile. “Fuck you, Quinn,” she shouts in his face. “FUCK!” 

Quinn looks just a little bit taken aback but otherwise shows no emotion. “Just make the promise, Carrie and I’ll fucking go,” he repeats. 

“Jesus fucking Christ. What do you want from me Quinn? I’m fucking done, I have nothing to give,” she bellows at him. “I just want you to leave me alone.” 

“Just promise me you’ll be alive the next time I come here and I’ll leave right now,” he says. 

It’s a terrible deal for him and she knows it. There would be nothing holding her to her word and promising now will get rid of him instantly. She needs the aloneness, the voidness of everything but her, no responsibilities, just her bed and the anxiety and the sad hopelessness. 

“Okay, I fucking promise, Quinn,” she says with a smirk. “Good luck holding me to that.” 

But Quinn just blinks and gives her a considered look. “You wouldn’t lie to me, Carrie,” he says. “Would you?” 

Something in his voice makes Carrie stop to actually think instead of just saying what she wants to say. And it’s fucking annoying to find that he’s right. She can’t just lie to him about this. She knows she will be tempted but she’s been tempted many times before and has never gone through with it. 

And most importantly, if she just says so he will leave. 

“Maybe not,” she finally mutters. 

Quinn shrugs, seems to think he’s gotten enough out of her. “Goodnight, Carrie,” he says, standing up. He takes her fingers in his for just a moment and put her knuckles to his lips before letting go. “Take care of yourself.” 

He tucks her in carefully even as she scowls viciously the whole time and then leaves quietly, somehow locking the door behind him. 

Carrie lies in bed, thankful to be alone again, wondering how the fuck she developed this Quinn problem. He’s harder to throw off than she ever imagined. And then there are those moments when maybe she doesn’t want to get rid of him at all. 

But the way she’s feeling, Carrie knows he will be gone by the end. She hasn’t felt a low like this come on in years - it’s already beyond the depression that hit when she lost her job the first time and she can tell it’s barely getting starting. 

By the end Quinn will have disappeared and she will be on her own, allowed to fucking kill herself if she wants. 

\---------


	3. Quinn II

\-----------  
Quinn II  
\-----------

Quinn drives through the empty late night streets at an illegal pace. Well, technically it is early morning and he is wired on coffee and need. 

He’s been tasked with watching Alain Bernard, the Mossad agent Lockhart hired to get rid of Saul. Apparently Lockhart now no longer trusts the man and thinks he’s doubling up again, using information about Lockhart and Saul to attract new employers.

But so far it’s been a lot of sitting around late nights watching as Bernard picks women up from fancy bars and brings them home. He thinks this is just fucking busywork, something Adal threw his way so he is occupied and out of the way, unable to ask the questions that need to be asked. 

As in why is Carrie still on administrative leave when she’s been cleared of any wrongdoing? Quinn’s been surreptitiously following her situation, spying on the spies and he knows she should technically be back on the job. Not that she’s in any way ready to be there but she should at least know that she’s been cleared, that her job is there waiting for her when she’s better. 

Carrie. All his thoughts flow downstream towards her lately. Ever since he broke in to her place to check on her after the debrief he’s been there almost daily. And she hasn’t broken her promise to him yet even though she is as lifeless as he’s ever seen her - mostly hiding in her dark bedroom as far as he can tell. 

But now it’s been a few days of chasing fucking Bernard around the Eastern Seaboard for nothing and Carrie hasn’t been answering her phone. So he made the executive decision to fuck off on his assignment. He will tell Adal tomorrow that he lost Bernard somehow or some other inane story that Adal won’t believe. It doesn’t matter anyway, what are they going to do, fire him? It would probably be a favour at this point.

Quinn pulls up at her house, makes an effort not to run for the door. He pulls out a key and snicks the door open silently. He has to say it’s nice to not have to break in - he had found a key taped to the door a few days into his late night visits, the only indication that Carrie wasn’t completely opposed to his constant appearances. 

Quinn tells himself to breathe deep. She’s probably fine, has certainly been known not to answer her phone for long stretches at a time. 

But when he nears her bedroom and still hasn’t heard her he starts to sweat a little. She always wakes up before he shows up in her room, a mark of being a spy. No matter how exhausted she seemed, no matter the time he showed up, Carrie would tell him through the door that she was going to shoot him. Since his first visit she hasn’t bothered with the gun though and now it’s just an inside joke. 

He opens her bedroom door, hears not a peep. It’s dark in the room but the bathroom light is on and he can easily see that she’s not in bed. 

“Carrie?” he asks, just in case she’s just on the can. She’d really fucking yell at him if he burst in on her shitting. 

He doesn’t hear a response and his nerves are starting to fray. Quinn’s heartbeat quickens and he is having a hard time controlling his breathing as he looks into the bathroom. 

What he sees doesn’t exactly help. Carrie is lying on the bathroom floor, unmoving and pale. Quinn looks around quickly and assesses the situation as well as his frazzled mind can at the moment. There’s no blood but it looks like Carrie hit her head hard on something as she went down. He kneels down next to her and nearly has a panic attack when at first he thinks she’s not breathing. But getting closer Quinn realizes she is breathing shallowly and has a steady pulse. He lets out a breath, feels his innards de-constrict. 

“Carrie,” he says, shaking her lightly on the shoulder. “Carrie, wake up.” 

It takes an extra second but her eyes open slowly before closing again quickly. She tries to sit up but only gets halfway before giving up and lying back down. 

“Carrie, can you hear me?” he asks. 

Carrie grimaces, keeps her eyes closed. “Yeah I can fucking hear you, Quinn,” she replies irritably. 

Quinn breathes, closes his eyes in thanks for a moment. “Shit Carrie,” he finally says. “Are you okay?” 

Carrie tries to sit up again and this time he helps her up until she’s leaning against the bathtub. She looks dazed and he can see a nasty looking bump on her head. Quinn reaches up to touch the welt but Carrie slaps his hand away and raises her own hand to finger it lightly. 

“I’m fine,” she answers sharply while probing the lump on her head. She winces as she presses down on it but doesn’t seem to show any other ill effects. 

Quinn frowns, wants to touch it himself to prove it’s just a bruise but knows she will resist. “You don’t look fucking fine,” he retorts. “What the hell happened?”

Carrie shrugs, doesn’t even bother to look apologetic - just scowls at him instead. “I don’t know. I guess I passed out,” she says.

Quinn stops to take a good look at her now that his heart and brain are almost back to normal operational status. He knows sometimes pregnant women can get lightheaded and faint but judging from Carrie’s ashen gauntness he thinks it’s more likely to be from low blood sugar. 

“Fuck, Carrie,” he says roughly. “When’s the last time you ate something?” 

Carrie looks away from him, her face curled up in what looks like annoyance. She doesn’t answer his question, just avoids his questioning look until he snaps. 

“What it’s been that long Carrie?” he asks with some fire. “Or you gave yourself such a good smack to the head you can’t remember?” 

Again she doesn’t answer and he’s on a roll. 

“Jesus, Carrie. You said you’d fucking take care of yourself and I find you passed out on the floor,” he rants. “You’re pale as death and it looks like you haven’t eaten in days.”

Quinn stops to look at her again and she turns, her eyes livid. 

“Are you done your lecture Quinn?” she snarls. “I haven’t broken your fucking promise have I?”

God she is infuriating sometimes. Most of the time, actually.

“Don’t be so fucking literal, Carrie,” he retorts. “You may be alive but you’re not doing much to try and stay that way.”

“Screw that. I didn’t agree to follow all your fucking rules, Quinn. I made one promise and that’s it. Nothing about eating, trying, giving a shit about life. I wouldn’t be that fucking dumb,” she argues. 

For a moment he just wants to shake her until she snaps out of it but Quinn’s seen depression before and he knows that’s not how it works. She’s not even trying to get out of it and he knows there’s not much he can do to make her try. Rationally he knows all he can do is keep on checking on her, making sure she keeps her fucking promise and hoping she gets herself out of it. But his newly rampant emotions are taking his usual stoic rationalism for a ride. 

“No, Carrie. Of course not. You’d never be so dumb as to give a shit about your life, about the Agency, about the things you’ve worked for,” he fires back. He wants to stop, to play nice. But he is fucking upset with her at the moment and it’s hard to reign the anger in. “By the way, they need you already, they’re just not telling you. You’ll be back before the kid’s born, that’s for sure.” 

“Fuck, Quinn. Who even said I’m having this kid? I can’t even deal with my own shit at the moment if you haven’t fucking noticed,” she yells at him. “I can’t get out of bed and I’m so fucking sad all the fucking time. So no, I don’t have any food and I don’t eat anything because I just can’t fucking deal with any of this okay? So now can you just leave me the fuck alone?!” 

Quinn takes the hit in his sternum and instantly feels like an asshole. Sometimes Carrie just flips open and lets everything out for a moment and this time she has a valid point. Immediately his anger at her turns evaporates and he remembers how it hasn’t been very long since she’s been back from Tehran and how much shit she’s been through. He wanted her to just bounce back, come back firing but it was unrealistic, even for someone without a mood disorder. She watched the love of her life publicly hanged after she had thought they were safe. Under the most unlikely circumstances. While fucking pregnant with his kid. 

If anyone had the right to be fucking depressed it was Carrie. It is just hard to watch her suffer - and Quinn isn’t accustomed to feeling so useless. 

“Shit, Carrie,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. It’s just hard seeing you wasting away - sometimes I forget everything that’s happened. Everything you’ve lost.” 

He tries to sit up next to her but she shifts away, avoids his eyes. 

“I don’t want your fucking pity, Quinn,” she says spitefully. “I don’t want you to be here at all.” 

Quinn looks at her and sighs. He wants to do a lot of things. Pick her up from the floor, put her in bed with some ice for her head, feed her a fucking sandwich, take her out somewhere, put some life back in her. None of these things are possible though, not with the way Carrie is looking at him right now.. 

“Why are you still here, Quinn? I’m going to clean up, go to bed like a good little girl alright. So you can leave now,” she says spitefully. 

Quinn blinks, wonders if he should try and fight her, knows he will lose. She probably has a concussion, should be woken every so often but the chance she will let him stay is nonexistent. And if she really doesn’t want him there then what can he do? As much as he would like to, he can’t just squat there and force feed her. 

So Quinn just stands up slowly, chest tight with frustration and something else. “If that’s what you want,” he says, backing out of the bathroom. “But I’ll be back tomorrow. Please try to take care of yourself Carrie.” 

Carrie responds with an anger-loaded expression but no words. She glares at him until he turns and even then Quinn can feel her eyes on his back. 

He walks out of her house, mentally exhausted and completely frustrated. He can’t just leave her floundering on her own but she won’t let him give her anything. 

But Quinn is nothing if not a resourceful guy and he knows he will find something he can do for her even if she doesn’t want him around. He can only hope he doesn’t get banished forever for whatever he does. 

\-----------


	4. Carrie II

\-------------  
Carrie II  
\-------------

Carrie stands at the top of the stairs, wavering in the dark. In one hand she has an almost empty bottle of vodka; in the other, her phone in a ready-to-throw position. 

The phone has been going off every fifteen minutes for about a day now - ever since Quinn showed up and found the new top-of-the-line Medeco deadbolt lock on her door the previous night. Even Quinn couldn’t pick the lock with his basic tools - she had listened to him try for most of the night, interposed with yelling at her through the door and attempts at calling her. Carrie didn’t answer any of his calls - she had already left him one simple message on his voicemail - that she was alive and would stay that way so he didn’t need to break down her door. 

Talking to the locksmith to order the lock had been the hardest things she’s done in weeks. Other than Quinn and her family she hasn’t had to talk to anyone since she started hiding out at home. But it was worth it for the lock, the day or two of privacy she will get from it. 

She knows Quinn will be back - he is nothing if not persistent. And he will get through the lock eventually or just break down her door despite her assurances. But at least she bought herself some time - time to see if she can make some decisions. 

Hiding at home on administrative leaves means Carrie’s had a lot of time to think, about her life, about Brody, about the baby. She’s spent most of this time in a very low trough, stifled by her grief and despair. Where her whole life has culminated to this point of loss - all that she’s struggled for and against, bringing her nothing in the end.

But lately there have been little breaks, tiny islands in the sea of hopelessness. 

That morning after she passed out in the bathroom and subsequently yelled at Quinn for finding her - it had been a shitty morning of concussion headaches and guilt. She hates that he found her in need, that she was so abruptly honest with him. So she had kicked him out for caring, as usual. 

And then she found her kitchen completely stocked in healthy convenient-to-eat foods. All foods she would conceivably eat, nothing that needed any preparation. At first she had mentally railed against him. What part of getting rid of him was he not understanding? 

But then Carrie ate some yoghurt and fruit and had to admit it was a good move on his part. She knows he wants to help, wants to just yank her out of the low she’s been in and she’s been resisting him the whole way. Filling her fridge and making it easier for her really was the best thing he could have done to push her towards making an effort at life. So now she only thinks him half an asshole for invading her life. 

Best laid plans can easily backfire though and having a little more energy when she’s still feeling like this is not necessarily a good thing. Because she might have some life in her yet but Carrie’s not sure what to do with it. The idea of living, going back to her job is riddled with difficulty. She is coming to remember the things she loves about the work, has moments when she thinks it’s possible that she could get back in the game. But those moments are few and far between - especially when her whole future is up in the air.

So she’s been thinking a lot, contemplating the possibility of a future, worrying a lot about the problem growing in her. And the extra energy got her moving, got her to change the locks so she could be at this point, standing at the top of the stairs, tilting a bit due to the alcohol. Thank god for the bottle she’d stashed in her room - Quinn had fucking cleared out the rest of her booze ages ago. 

Carrie thinks again at how many times she’s hit the bottle since the first fucking pee-stick showed her the ominous blue line. Enough times to give a kid brain damage, she bets. This is some of what she’s been thinking about while hiding in her bed, crushed by the anxiety about what the fuck to do with a baby she’s not sure she wants, by the total sad uselessness she finds herself in. 

She knows the drinking binges have partly been a calculated gamble, the possibility of the problem just getting rid of itself has crossed her mind more than once. Then she wouldn’t have to make the decision herself. Because Carrie equally can and cannot get rid of the baby. It’s all that she has left of him, the only physical remains of their time, their love. But she’s also sure she can’t be a mom, can’t raise a kid, will eventually run off just like her own mom did.

Carrie keeps coming back to the fact that everything would be easier if the baby just never gets born, if she fell down the stairs and the whole thing went away. It’s not a perfect solution, not even a good one. Logically she knows it’s unlikely to actually get rid of her problem, that the idea is just a manifestation of her depressed self. And knowing her luck the baby would probably end up fine or extra brain damaged or something. But the possibility is still growing on her, especially after she found the last of her vodka stash. 

Thus the Medeco locks, the window of opportunity, the booze, and the stairs. 

But now that she’s standing there, Carrie finds herself a bit unsure. She thinks she should have held off on changing the locks until she really decided but knows the longer she waits the less chance things will work out. And she’s sick of thinking about it, worrying her days away.

So she does her best to surround herself with all the reasons she wants to be rid of the baby, all her fears about being a terrible mom, all her concerns about her career and having a constant reminder of Brody around. It’s not quite enough so she chugs the end of the bottle, grimaces as the booze slides down her throat. Right now she wants the liquor to feed the depression, push her to the edge, to the point where this seems like a good idea.

And then Carrie hears a scraping metallic sound, the whirr of a tiny drill and knows she’s out of time. But her irrational mind still tries to convince herself she can do it now, before he gets in. That it would best if Quinn’s too late to help her, that he fails his self-inflicted duty. Because then he might actually leave, catch on that the changed locks and her hateful attitude are her best attempts at pushing him past what he can take. There’s only so long he can keep banging his head against a concrete wall, she thinks. And so far it’s worked for everyone except her family- and they are stuck with her. 

But then he’s through the door in less time than the locksmith said was possible and Carrie’s out of time. 

“Carrie?” Quinn calls, breathlessly. “Carrie, are you alright?” 

It takes him a moment to flick on the lights before he’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her with a widening oh shit expression. 

Carrie goes to sit down on the stairs, knows when the game is up. But she’s been standing and drinking for awhile and stumbles, almost falls down the stairs before catching herself on the bannister. 

Quinn is up the stairs in a matter of nanoseconds, probably would have caught her two stairs into her tumble at his response rate. She scowls at him, indicates his action was unnecessary - that she had saved herself when she could have fallen and given her plan a chance. 

“Jesus, Carrie,” Quinn mutters, sitting next to her on the top stair. “You can’t keep drinking.” 

“Tell me something I don’t already know, Quinn,” Carrie replies. 

Quinn looks at her seriously, he looks like he’s about to give her another well-meaning lecture and she is mentally railing against it already. Because Carrie’s only just begun to think she might have some unfinished business with the world, some more life left to live. But she doesn’t want him to help her get her life back on track, doesn’t want Quinn’s help in any way. The process will be hard and he’s already seen her at her worst, her most vulnerable. She doesn’t want him to see any more of her, of her personal wounds. He’s already too close. If she can push him off now maybe she can put this chapter of her life behind her, seal it off and start fresh. 

Not that she doesn’t like Quinn, but Carrie’s used to guys feeling protective of her and she’s only ever let it get to a certain point. She’s a big girl, she can take of herself. And she loses most of them when she hits her highs and her lows anyways. That’s the way it’s always been, it’s all she knows - what she’s comfortable with. This, whatever it is with Quinn - friendship, obligation, it’s too much for her right now. When she’s like this there is only space for herself in her life. Carrie knows from history she just needs some time alone and she will eventually make the slow climb out of her bedroom. But having someone else she is obligated to, that gives a shit what happens to her, that is too much. 

But he won’t stop showing up and right now he’s going on about how she can’t harm the baby. 

“I’m dead serious Carrie,” he says. “If you’re thinking about hurting the baby I won’t let it happen. You need to get some help.”

He is looking at her so seriously and she laughs in his face. A half-sarcastic, half-manic laugh.

“What the hell are you going to do about it, Quinn?” she asks forcefully. “No one can help me. I made this whole thing happen and now this is what I’m stuck with.”

But apparently Quinn doesn’t need to learn his lessons twice and he refuses to get angry with her. He just keeps giving her his stoically concerned look, basically regular Quinn but with sad eyes. He tries to put his arm around her shoulders but she shakes him off, scoots away from him.

“Carrie, I know you’re having a hard time right now,” he says, putting his arm down in defeat. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But I want to help - just tell me what you need.” 

Carrie looks at him and thinks this is it, this is her chance. She pushes all her anger, frustration, hurt and anxiety to the forefront and channels it towards him, glares at him with everything she’s got. 

“I need you to leave me the fuck alone, Quinn. I mean it,” she says to his face. She sees the sadness in his eyes grow but he manages to maintain his stoic expression. “I know you’re worried about me but you don’t have to be. I’ll keep the promise, you don’t need to check. I won’t hurt myself, I won’t hurt the baby, but I just want to be alone. I’ve always done this by myself, Quinn. I don’t want or need your help.”

Quinn looks like she’s punched him in the solar plexus, like he’s taken a direct hit to his heart. He does his best to hide it but she can tell. 

He nods slowly, looks at her in defeat. “If that’s really what you want,” he says grimly. 

Carrie looks at him, sees the wound she’s inflicted. The truth is she’s not at all sure that’s what she wants; she feels like she’s wounded something in herself too. And this has never happened before - in her life Carrie’s tossed off a lot of guys that want to help her and she’s never felt anything but relief to be rid of them. 

Quinn still doesn’t make a move to leave, just keeps looking at her appraisingly. “I know you don’t give a shit what I think, Carrie. But I had to make a similar decision once and I made the wrong choice. I ran, kept going it alone. And now that’s my biggest regret,” he says. “I know you’re scared, I was scared as fuck. And I took the coward’s way out. But you, Carrie, you are no fucking coward. Remember that.” 

Carrie looks at him, resists the urge to move closer, reminds herself all she’s just done to finally get rid of him. This is not the time to care about Quinn, she says to herself. But it’s not that easy. 

“Look Quinn, you’ve done a good job alright. I just can’t be around anyone when I’m like this,” she says because it’s always been that way. 

Right now with Quinn beside her though, it feels like maybe she could lean on him, talk to him about all her fears. And that’s what terrifies her the most - that she might let him in too far and then what? Then she’d just have another person in her life that cares about her, another relationship she will fuck up in the end. 

Quinn gives her a long look. “Tell me you’ll call if you need anything, Carrie,” he says, a touch of roughness in his voice. 

Carrie smiles just a little. “I’ll call you if I need anything, Quinn.” 

He nods and stands up. Carrie stands up too, feeling almost sober from their conversation. 

“Take care of yourself,” he says, taking her hand and pulling her towards him. “I’ll be watching.” 

She resists for a moment but then lets him pull her into a hug. If this is all she has to give then she can at least give him one last reassurance. 

“Stalker,” she mutters into his ear. 

Quinn quirks a small smile as she backs out of his embrace. “It’s true,” he replies. “I’ll always be watching out for you, Carrie.” 

His statement should make her anxious but for some reason it almost settles her. 

He walks down the stairs, pauses to look back as he opens the door. 

“Really, Carrie. Call me. Anything you need,” he says. 

Carrie nods dutifully, thinks that’s a call she’ll never make. Quinn gives her one last look before he walks out the door, leaving her alone. 

Carrie watches him out with mixed emotions, thinks how he doesn’t deserve any of this, that he should be happy to have her off his conscience. The hardest part is she thinks she actually might like Quinn, that having him around might be good for her. Which is just all the more reason to get rid of him now, before he becomes too attached, gets to know too much of her. 

It’s for his own good, Carrie tells herself, lying in bed later that night. She tries to ignore the part of her that misses him already, the part that keeps seeing his sad eyes, his carefully hidden expression of hurt. 

As she falls asleep Carrie realizes that she wouldn’t have thought it possible but now she feels even worse than before. 

\-------------


	5. Quinn III

\------------  
Quinn III  
\------------

Quinn is sitting, sweating, and cursing. He’s been driving around in hundred degree weather for over eight hours a day, three days running now, tailing his target in anticipation of a meet with his Iranian handler. He’s also annoyed as shit, thought he was done with this crap, hates being away. And in Iran of all places - he’s never been there before but still has a head full of Iran-related worries and memories. 

But of all the fucking assignments, this is one he has to do, wants to do. Alain Bernard, Mossad double agent extraordinaire, fucker of Saul’s wife. Trying to sell the CIA’s secrets to the Iranians, secrets that may or may not include the identity of a certain top asset in the Iranian Guard and his blonde handler at the CIA. 

By all indications, the meet should be soon, possibly even today. And now that Quinn has been following Bernard through a myriad of double backs and evasive maneuvers he thinks it’s got to be now.

After what seems like hours of useless spy games Bernard finally stops in an industrial area. It’s dark out by now and the area is deserted, warehouses and small factories closed for the night. Quinn radios in his location, hears that his backup team is behind by about thirty minutes. 

Thirty minutes and the job will probably be done, he thinks to himself. And then he can get the fuck out of Iran and back to the States. This has never happened to him before, this uncontrollable itch to get the mission over with. He supposes it’s because he’s never had anything to return to before.

Not that he does now either - Carrie made that perfectly clear the last time he talked to her. Actually she’d been saying it all along, he had just been ignoring her until the last time. And truthfully, if he was still there he’d probably have already given in to his urge to see her, check on her. Which would have pissed her off to no end, he’s sure. So maybe it is really best that he’s here, on this shitty assignment, killing dickhead Bernard and his Iranian handler. 

But here, he just thinks about Carrie’s time in Iran, all the shit she suffered. Well at least I’m consistent, Quinn thinks. He can’t get her out of his head, no matter where he is. 

Bernard has left his vehicle finally and Quinn does the same, silently creeping out far from his target. The industrial nature of the area makes it easy to slip behind corners and Quinn thinks he should be able to line up his shots fairly easily, he just has to be patient. 

Quinn nears the little yard between buildings where Bernard has stopped, sees another man coming towards the Mossad agent but doesn’t have a good angle on either. So he backs up a bit to ensure he’s not seen and goes to find a better spot. 

As he makes his way towards a clearer angle Quinn finds his thoughts drifting back to his predicament with Carrie. She wants him out of her life and he is having a fucking hard time accepting this. He still watches from outside her place, sits thinking how he really just is a fucking stalker now. 

Of all the shit he’s dealt with in his life, this has never come up before. Quinn has never gotten so attached to anyone he couldn’t let go. 

He tries to shake Carrie out of his head, something he finds really fucking difficult. But he has the angle on the kill now and the timing is about right. He has other things to be thinking about but part of him is still preoccupied, has been since Carrie was the one in Iran, hell, since she was in the mental hospital. 

Quinn takes his weapon out, gets ready for the shot. Tries to focus all of his mental faculties on the situation at hand. But when he takes a step, he doesn’t notice an odd glint off a warehouse window. And by the time he sees the second reflection he ducks, even though he knows it’s too late. 

He fires two shots but hears four and suddenly he is on the ground, his body strangely numb. A sniper, Quinn thinks. A shitty one since he’s still alive. No bullet to the brain. And he thinks he even hit his own targets with kill shots too. 

But just because he is still alive, it doesn’t mean it’s going to stay that way. Cause apparently there’s a big fucking target on his abdomen that keeps getting assholes to shoot there. And then there’s the slightly alarming feeling that breathing is getting harder and harder. 

Quinn recognizes as the adrenaline leaves his system and shock sets in. He reaches for his phone but the demands of his brain are not met by the parts of his body and all he can feel is blood everywhere.

Fuck. Looks like you got your wish, Carrie, he thinks just as he blacks out, unable to catch his breath.

****

Flashes of consciousness, hands on him, being dragged. Blood all over the floor of a van, pooling in the corners. Someone pressing hard on his chest, his gut; a lot of fucking pain. Enough that he passes out again wondering if this is it. You really fucked it up this time, he tells himself. 

****

Another flash, he’s on his back, fizzy florescent lighting above. Lots of yelling, noise. Less pain though, enough so he tries to sit up. Which is a fucking mistake. Searing pain, a flash of a needle. Then nothing.

****

Adal’s face, irritated, disgusted. Peering down on him, a stark white room. Tubes everywhere, surrounded by beeping. Adal sneers, Quinn closes his eyes, drifts away.

****

Awake again. Alive. No flickering lights but stale familiar air, movement. Aching everywhere, nauseous gut, difficult breaths. A plane, he thinks before he goes back to the other side of consciousness. 

****

Bright lights again, antiseptic smell. Straps, tubes, immobility. Locked inside, claustrophobic in his body. Sorry Carrie, not dead yet, he thinks. But teetering on the brink.

****

Same lights, same slightly deathy smell. Quinn comes to coughing, a horrible pain in his chest. Each cough rattles through him like an earthquake until he is almost dry heaving, desperately short of air. A nurse comes running in, sticks a breathing mask on him and he doesn’t even fight it. 

He stays conscious this time, takes the breathing mask off after a few minutes. Tries to talk but his voice won’t come. 

“We had to intubate you and we just pulled the tube so don’t try to talk right now,” the nurse says. “We pulled the chest tube too even though both could have stayed in a few more days.” 

Well that’s good news at least, Quinn thinks. He hates hospitals, the idea of being incapacitated, having to be taken care of. It’s humiliating. He wonders what the fuck happened but has a pretty good idea based on how he is feeling. Worse than getting gut shot in fucking Gettysburg by a long shot.

His expression must betray his thoughts because the nurse looks at him and says, “You’re at the Landstuhl military hospital in Germany. You were shot. Twice. Once in the abdomen and once in the chest. Your ribs took the brunt of the chest shot, six broken ones and you suffered a collapsed left lung, that’s why the tube was in there. Slightly luckier with the one to the abdomen, missed the artery but there was a lot of bleeding. You did need surgical repair for some damage to your stomach and small intestine so you will need to be on antibiotics for awhile to make sure infection doesn’t set in.” 

Quinn frowns, thinks that’s why he feels so fucking shitty. Wonders how long he is going to have to suffer the indignity of the hospital. 

“How long?” he croaks. 

“You’ve been here for three days now after you arrived from Iran,” the nurse replies. “They did emergency surgery there and then some follow up work done here. We would like to keep you another few days but apparently you are being sent back to the US today. You need to be checked into a hospital when you arrive and make sure they take a good look at your records. You’re doing better but you’re not out of the woods yet, Mr. Quinn.”

Quinn tries to nod, thinks it’s highly unlikely he’s getting checked into a hospital at home. What would be the point? He would just leave at his first opportunity anyways. The hospital has done it’s job, he thinks. He can suffer his way through like last time. 

The nurse smiles and leaves. His eyes follow her blonde bob out the door and he suddenly thinks of Carrie. He’s been in this place for three days, in Iran for at least four days before that, hadn’t talked to her for three days before he left. Not that he’s counting. 

He wonders how she is now that she finally got him out of her life, if she’s gotten away from the depression. He hopes she’s happy, then thinks how unlikely that is. 

But even just thinking of her helps. He was distracted and he fucked up. By all rights Quinn should be dead. But he’s not. So he will get back, get better, make sure she’s alright. Maybe she won’t even be pissed off at him now that he’s unintentionally given her some space. 

Unlikely, but a hell of a lot better than remembering her telling him to leave time and time again, he thinks as he passes out again. 

\---------

Two grunts come for him with a wheelchair but Quinn pushes himself out of bed, makes himself stand on wobbly legs. He tries to put one foot in front of the other but his body doesn’t want to move, probably due to the massive amount of painkillers they’ve pumped into him for his trip. And even through the painkillers he can feel the ache all throughout his chest, his gut. 

He still balks though until one of them pushes him unceremoniously into the wheelchair. Quinn lands with a wince, grits his teeth to stop from shouting out in pain. He is suddenly thankful for the chair, feels he might pass out at any time. 

The grunts throw him into a company vehicle and he lays down in the back seat, unable to manage a sitting position. 

“You must have really fucked up,” grunt #1 says. “Adal’s pissed.” 

Quinn groans. “They’re dead aren’t they?” he rasps, realizing he doesn’t know if he took down his targets before getting nailed himself.

“Yeah but it was a fucking clusterfuck getting you fixed up and out of there,” the grunt replies. 

“Fuck him,” Quinn says with his last useful breath. He starts coughing again as his sore lungs and ribs scream. He tells himself he’s being a pussy but the fit brings tears to his eyes and he wishes he would just black out. 

The grunts ignore him, leave him swimming in his body of pain. He feels the car start up and drive a short distance before stopping again. Quinn’s thankful as he thinks he might puke and would like to at least hang his head out the vehicle while doing so. But before he gets the chance the door is opened and grunt #2 hauls him up by the under his arms. 

Quinn sees they’re at a private airfield and there’s a company plane waiting for them.

“Get your hands off me,” he rasps coldly, doing his best to stand on his own. He’s shaky but managing. The stairs up to the plane will be a challenge but he’s a fucking soldier. 

The grunt lets him go, gives him a look of distaste. “Just trying to help your sorry ass,” he grumbles. 

But Quinn knows it’s bullshit. These guys work for Adal and were clearly told to give him the rough treatment. He knows how it goes, this is what happens when you fuck up and make things ‘difficult’ for your boss. 

He gets up the stairs by hunching over and staring at his feet, willing them up one stair at a time. By the end he’s in a cold sweat and collapses into the first seat he sees. Effort means breathing and breathing means pain.

Quinn hazily sees the grunts getting on as he shudders in his seat, the chill of the recycled air hitting his already cold sweat. He knows it will be a shit plane ride, realizes the grunts never gave him any meds. His only hope is to pass out but the pain is just starting to really come through now, his last dose of painkillers quickly wearing off. 

Thirteen hours later he still hasn’t managed unconsciousness, is just a quivering mess. He feels so shitty on every level he thinks it’s possible he could cry due to sheer pain. Which is something he hasn’t done probably since the age of five. But the combination of extremely painful breathing and a mangled torso combined with nausea and what feels like a fever is pushing him to the edge. 

It’s a minor relief when the plane finally lands and he stumbles off at the other side into another company car, grunts leading the way. 

“Adal wants to know if you want to go to the hospital,” grunt #1 says, implying of course that this need would be held against him, noted as a deficiency. 

Right now Quinn doesn’t give a fuck about Adal, about the Agency. But he hates hospitals, does not want anyone looking after him, washing his invalid ass in a sponge bath. 

“No, just take me home,” Quinn mutters. “Give me the fucking pills though.” 

A bag of meds come flying at him and he dry swallows two pain ones, tries to keep calm and not breathe while they kick in. 

Thankfully the grunts are happy to just argue with each other about football while he lies slightly delirious in the back. When they stop he just manages to figure out that they’re at the latest of his temporary residences. Just another soulless low cost bed on the floor. 

Quinn stumbles out or the car, pushes his way through the door and falls onto the mattress. The pain pills are finally kicking in and he can feel his consciousness start to drift away.

\---------

He stays like this for days, unsure of exactly how long. In and out of consciousness, mostly unable to move from the bed. Thankfully the pain pills are close enough to dry swallow but they’re already running low. There’s another few prescriptions in the bag that he’s been thinking of getting filled but the capabilities needed for that are a distant possibility. Even if he had someone to call Quinn can’t find his phone. He assumes it’s in the house, he thinks he’s heard it ringing when he’s closer to consciousness. But what’s real and what’s not is not terribly clear to him at the moment.

There are moments Quinn comes to and thinks he might be dying, probably is. He hasn’t eaten in days and only drinks water on the rare occasions he has the energy to get up. He’s running a solid fever too, enough to make him delirious sometimes - he’s seen people at the house, ghosts of Julia, their kid, Carrie. He almost wants Carrie to be there but she’s not exactly the nursing type. She’d probably just be pissed off and, besides, she wanted him to leave her alone.

In a rare moment of clarity Quinn notices he’s bleeding through his bandages, thinks he should change them and then laughs to himself at the impossibility of that act. This is a shitty way to die, he thinks. He doesn’t particularly want to die but maybe hasn’t the physical energy to prevent it, he thinks. Pathetic but deserved, a lonely death for a lonely life.


	6. Carrie III

\------------  
Carrie III  
\------------

Carrie stands at her door and stares at her feet, willing them to make the step.

Fifteen days. Over two weeks and not a peep, no watchful eye. Quinn is gone for real, didn’t even come by to let her know. But then again who’s fault is that? 

This is what Carrie has been thinking for the past week. Maybe longer. He’s on an assignment, something long-term. But she knows he would have told her he was leaving; she had expected him back within days armed with some bad excuse. 

The worst part is she knows she deserves it after spending so long telling him to leave. The other worst part is she is still stuck in her own low and the constant hits are getting to be too much. Even if she did create this one on her own. Hell she basically created all the other things too. Everything she does turns to shit in the end. 

And then there’s that other thing, the twitch in her gut that tells her there’s something wrong, that she needs to find him. Carrie’s never known such a strong intuition to be wrong before.

She had put her pride aside and called a week ago, has tried to reach him ever since. He never answered though and eventually it started ringing straight to his voicemail. She had even considered getting Virgil to track the number but then she would have had to break her personal quarantine. Of course by the time she was ready to do it his phone was dead. 

And now. Fifteen days. Carrie tries not to think how many things can happen to someone in fifteen days. She doesn’t even know if he’s on the continent and it’s driving her crazier than she already was. 

So she’s at the door, hand reaching for the knob. Carrie hasn’t left her house in over a month now, since she dove into her depression. It’s been a bad one and it’s still hanging on, especially with her anxiety and self-hatred on overdrive due to Quinn being MIA.

But then again it’s also the reason she’s at the door, dressed for the office, invalid ID clipped to her jacket. It feels both extremely normal and completely wrong, Carrie hasn’t worn anything other than sweats for ages, hasn’t bothered with a hairbrush in that time. 

Putting her office outfit on was step number one. Step number two is harder but she pulls together all of her waning determination, remembers how shitty it is sitting around not doing anything about her problem. The feeling that she should be doing something instead of lying around in the anxious dark was what finally got her motivated enough to put together this plan.

So Carrie takes a deep calming breath, opens the door and steps outside. The fresh air pulls her forward and she gets in her car, drives to Langley the same way she’s done hundreds of times before. She’s not sure how things will go when she gets there but she pushes that worry back, focuses on her objective. Now that she’s left there’s no going back, not without what she’s after. 

Carrie arrives at headquarters and walks in as casually as she can towards one of the friendlier security guards, Dwayne. She hopes against hope that her ID will scan properly but sees a frown on Dwayne’s face when he scans her pass. 

“Sorry, Ms. Mathison,” he says. “Looks like your security status has been put on hold.” 

Carrie gives him her best smile, tries to seem confident. “Oh, I’ve been on leave but it should be good to go for today,” she says. “Just let me up for now and I’ll go get this fixed.”

Dwayne gives her a half-smile. “You know we can’t do that, Ms. Mathison,” he says firmly. “Can’t let anyone in without security clearance.” 

Carrie tries again, pushing her anxiety back before it rises to the surface. This is the first conversation she’s had in a long time and it’s not going as planned. “Come on Dwayne. How long have you been frisking me?” she asks with a smile. “You know I’m clean.” 

“What I know and what I’m allowed to do are two different things,” he replies. “Rules are rules, you know how it goes.” 

Carrie sighs, feels tears starting to form and forces them back. “Look Dwayne. This could be a life or death situation. I wouldn’t be here for anything less,” she says, letting her anxiety poke through. “I need to get in, talk to Adal. Just bring me there and ask him to take charge of me there then you’re off the hook.”

Dwayne looks at her seriously, he looks a bit concerned and she wonders if she really looks that bad. Or if the baby’s really starting to show. Either could work in her favour, she thinks and as long as it gets her what she wants, she doesn’t care. 

“Please. It’s already too late,” she pleads. “Just bring me to Adal’s office.”

Dwayne sighs and moves his head in what could be a nod. “Okay. Just once so you can get yourself a working pass,” he says, calling another guard to take over his station. 

Carrie breathes a sigh of relief. This is the hardest thing she’s had to do for a month and it’s barely started. 

“Thanks Dwayne,” she says. “I won’t forget this.” 

He escorts her to Adal’s office and waits with her until she manages to barge her way in. 

“Adal, I need to talk to you,” she says, bursting in to his office when the door is opened by one of Adal’s guys leaving. “Tell Dwayne he can leave me with you so we can talk.” 

Adal gives her steel eyes but he nods to Dwayne. “You can leave her with me,” he says.

Carrie breathes deep again, so far things are actually coming together.

“So what’s so important you needed to break into the CIA, Carrie?” Adal says with a scowl.

Carrie looks at him with practiced eyes, tries to see if he really doesn’t know why she’s here. It’s hard to tell with Adal, though and she doesn’t have time for mind games.

“Where’s Quinn?” she asks, going straight to the point. 

“That’s classified,” Adal replies with a frown. 

Carrie scowls. “There’s something wrong isn’t there? Just tell me where he is, that he’s fine or get him to answer his goddamn phone so he can tell me himself and I’ll leave,” she replies. 

“Sorry, Carrie,” Adal says with a fake sympathetic look. “You know I can’t do that.” 

Carrie glares at him, knows it won’t work on Adal. The man has no feelings, no man in his position could and still be effective. 

“Well I know you could if you gave a shit about the people that do your dirty work, that put themselves on the line,” she fires at him. “I know there’s something wrong. And if something happens to Quinn because you dicked me around then you better watch out, Adal. You think you’re safe but you don’t know how far I would go. I’m fucking crazy, remember.” 

Adal keeps a blank face, no reaction at all. “I think you need to leave now, Carrie,” he says. 

Carrie gives him one last scowl. Unfortunately she agrees - if she stays things will get messy. 

She turns and leaves Adal’s office, putting the next step of her plan into action. Carrie is feeling more herself already, the fire is burning in her at least for the moment. She is not going to leave without what she needs. 

Carrie heads for Fara’s office, finds the financial analyst at her desk eyes focused on her computer screen. 

“Fara, I need your help,” Carrie says. 

Fara looks up from her screen startled. “Carrie, you’re back,” she says with a tentative smile.

Carrie doesn’t bother to try and smile back; she is only after one thing. “Do you know what happened to Quinn?” 

Fara suddenly looks nervous, looks around to see who might be listening. “Classified,” she says. “I don’t have the clearance.” 

Carrie frowns. “Look, I need to know whatever you know, whatever you’ve heard,” she pleads. 

Fara looks around again, gives Carrie a timid look. “I heard he was shot on a mission,” she says. “But that’s just a rumour.” 

Carrie exhales loudly. “I need to know where he is, Fara. And he’s moved so I don’t know where to find him and he’s not answering his phone,” she says. “Can you look him up in the system?” 

Fara shakes her head. “I can’t,” she says. “I’m not authorized to view personnel files.” 

Carrie gives her a interrogative stare. 

“I’ve seen you on the computers. I know you can do it. I need you to do it. Quinn needs you to do it. You don’t know what he’s like, Fara,” she says plaintively. “The last time he got shot he took himself out of the hospital the next day and just popped pain pills like candy. He could be fucking dying and he wouldn’t ask for help. I know something’s wrong - you have to help me.” 

Fara gives her a worried look and Carrie knows she’s won. 

“Please, Fara,” she pleads. “I have to find him.” 

Fara looks around nervously then turns back to her computer and starts typing furtively. 

“Just the address,” she says, printing the information out for Carrie. 

Carrie sighs, almost collapses from the effort of it all. She looks around and has a moment of lightheaded surreality. She’s really at Langley and is going to leave with her reward. 

“Thank you Fara. You don’t know how much I needed this,” Carrie says, running out the door. 

\---------

Carrie stands outside a very nondescript house, knocking on the door. 

“Quinn!” she shouts. “Are you in there? It’s Carrie, let me in.”

She hears no response, sees no signs of life so she goes to the back of the house and takes out a bobby pin, slips it into the lock. 

Surprisingly Quinn has shitty locks, probably hasn’t had time to replace the ones that came on his newest shithole. 

Carrie steps inside and is almost overcome with a putrid smell, the scent of death. It’s more than ominous and her stomach seizes in nervous anticipation. 

She walks into the main room, sees a mattress and a pale and bloody Quinn. Her heart freezes for a moment and she has to take a deep breath before she can get close enough to see that he’s breathing. 

Carrie heaves a minor sigh of relief and sits on the floor beside the mattress, putting her hand to Quinn’s forehead. It is burning hot and he is sweating buckets. But he’s alive. 

His eyes flutter when she puts her hand on him and he seems to have a hard time focusing his vision. 

“Quinn, can you hear me?” she asks, shaking his shoulder slightly. 

Quinn groans in pain at her touch but reaches out with his hand. Carrie takes his hand and he squeezes twice. 

“Carrie?” he says deliriously. “You’re real.” 

Quinn is looking at her with dazed eyes, coated in a sheen of sweat. He is deathly pale and nearly emaciated, his bloody t-shirt sagging on his frame. 

Carrie feels every emotion that’s been battling in her jump to the forefront. All her anxiety, sadness, anger, fear - she sees it right now in Quinn. She was counting on him even after she’d told him to fuck off; she even missed his fucking nightly lectures. She would watch him watch her even after she kicked him out and it always made her feel better, knowing he was still around.

“Jesus Christ, Quinn!” she explodes. “You can’t fucking do this. You can’t just disappear on some mission and almost die and not call and not answer your fucking phone! Do you know how long it’s been? I’ve been fucking worried sick.”

Quinn smiles. “You’re the one who told me to leave, Carrie,” he gasps out. 

Carrie scowls at him with fiery eyes. “I didn’t fucking mean forever!” she snaps. “I didn’t mean you could fucking die on me, alone in some shithole.”

“I’m not dying,” he tries to say but he half chokes on a word and starts to cough a painful-sounding wheezing cough. 

Carrie looks at him in alarm, gets past her fear and really looks. “Fuck, Quinn,” she says sadly. “You really look like shit.” 

She gets up to get some water for him, gives him his last pain pills and helps him sit up to drink the water. 

He looks exhausted from the last bout of coughing but he’s pretending to be okay. “I’m fine, Carrie. I just need some rest.” 

“Bullshit. You’re running a fever and you look like you haven’t eaten since you disappeared. I don’t see any antibiotics and you’re out of pain meds. What the fuck were you going to do?” she asks. 

Quinn shrugs, closes his eyes in pain. “Just lie here and die then, I guess,” he admits. “Seems fitting right.” 

Something in Carrie bursts and tears come streaming out. She wants to fucking hit him hard, she wants to pull him into her arms, tell him she’s sorry about everything.

“FUCK. I told you, you can’t die, Quinn” she says between sobs, poking him in the shoulder. “Please.” 

“Yeah, well you kind of spoiled the die alone plan,” he replies with a small smile. “But you could still leave.” 

Carrie frowns, knows he’s playing with her but it still pisses her off. She takes a deep breath, pushes back the tears. 

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” she says. “I should get you to the hospital.” 

Quinn shakes his head. “No hospitals,” he says. 

Carrie frowns again but knows she would be the same way about it. 

“Then come to my place,” she says without even thinking. She just knows he can’t be here, alone on a bloody mattress in a house with no furniture. 

Quinn gives her a skeptical look, shakes his head. “No way, Carrie. You asked me to leave you alone, I’m not fucking staying at your place. You know this is going to take awhile. I’m fine here,” he argues. 

Carrie shakes her head, gives him her best glare. “Fuck that, Quinn. You’re coming with me. I can change her mind, you know,” she replies. “And I’m not leaving until you agree.” 

A taste of his own, she thinks. 

Quinn frowns at her but she just keeps giving a ‘what are you waiting for’ look and he finally sighs. “Fine, I’ll come with you. Just for now, ” he says resignedly. “One condition though.” 

Carrie looks at him sideways, quirks an eyebrow. “What’s that, Quinn?” 

“No sponge baths,” he replies seriously. 

Carrie half smiles, grips his hand in hers. “Deal,” she says, not quite believing she’s invited Quinn to invade her carefully guarded privacy. But her instincts are rarely wrong and this one feels exactly right.


	7. Quinn IV

\-------------  
Quinn IV  
\-------------

Quinn is lying on the bed in Carrie’s guest room, trying to will his body to cooperate. She had helped him there after the painkillers had kicked in and he was a little lightheaded from all the activity of getting from his place to Carrie’s. Now she’s out getting his prescription filled or that’s what he thinks she said. All he knows is it’s a good time for him to move, shower, clean up before she comes back and notices his filthiness. Because the idea of Carrie helping him shower can only lead to every kind of disaster. 

So he’s gathering all his will, pushes himself up from the bed and into the bathroom. Manages to start the shower running before sitting on the toilet to take a much needed break. Thankfully he’s already not wearing a shirt and it’s relatively easy to remove his pants. Getting into the shower is harder but he makes it with only a slight wobble.

The water feels glorious, he hasn’t been able to shower in weeks. The heat beats against him and the steam pushes into his sore lung; he breathes deep like the nurse told him to. Bad idea. 

The breath goes deep into his chest but he chokes on the pain. It rattles through his body as he fumbles to turn the shower off, each breath a cough and each cough a punch to his wrecked ribs. He looks for a towel, doesn’t find one. Realizes he has to lie down or he’ll be lying on the floor soon. Self-preservation kicks in and he manages the twenty steps back to the bed, collapsing into it still coughing. 

Eventually the cycle of coughing and heaving comes to an end but it spits Quinn out ragged and sweating, naked and starting to shiver. 

Of course that’s when he hears the door open and knows he has no chance to solve his problem before she checks on him. Because he can’t move yet, and she’s only steps away.

“Quinn?” she calls. “You awake?” 

He makes no response, keeps trying to breathe without coughing. He is in the middle of a heaving breath when she comes in and sees him naked and useless on the bed. 

Carrie raises her eyebrows in mild concern, sits down next to him on the bed and pulls the covers over his shivering body. “Jesus, Quinn,” she says. “There are towels.” 

Quinn tries to smile, comes out as a grimace. “Like you’ve never seen a dick before, Carrie,” he manages to rasp out. 

Carrie hides a grin, tries to look stern and he counts it a point in his favour. 

“Doesn’t mean I need to see yours. You’re lucky you didn’t pass out in the shower,” she says. “You could have waited for help.” 

Quinn glares at her to let her know his opinion of asking for help but she pretends not to notice. Instead she runs her hand over his feverish brow, up through his wet hair as he tries not to shudder.

Thankfully Carrie gets up and goes into the bathroom, leaving him able to gather himself for a moment, trying not to be a shaking mess. But he really does feel like shit and now his bandages are all wet and bloody. Great houseguest he’s been so far; she’s really going to regret bringing him here, he thinks. 

She returns with a towel and dries his hair for him, then passes him the towel. 

“Dry yourself off, Quinn,” she says with a smirk, throwing a bag that lands perilously close to his sore chest. “And put some pants on.” 

Carrie leaves the room and he does as she says, pushes back the covers and dries off as well as he can from a sitting position. He looks in the bag and finds a pair of sweats, a couple of shirts. 

By the time she gets back he’s managed to wrestle himself into the pants but doesn’t bother with the shirt over the wet bandages. Carrie returns with water and a big bag from the pharmacy, makes him take a handful of pain pills and antibiotics before starting to unwrap his bandages. 

Quinn tries to pull back. “It’s alright, I can do it myself,” he mutters. 

Carrie gives him a pissed off look, scowls. “I’d like to see that, Quinn. You can barely sit up long enough for me to do it,” she says. 

He frowns, is annoyed because he knows she’s right. But a guy’s got to have some dignity. He hates it even when anonymous nurses see him incapacitated, have to clean his ass. It will be exponentially worse if it’s Carrie even if she’s already seen him in some shit situations, times of weakness. 

Quinn feels exposed, mostly hates it and but kind of wants it, wants her to know him. And he knows he needs help, he just doesn’t want to admit it. 

“Carrie relax, I’ll do it,” he tries. “Just give me a minute.” 

But Carrie just looks at him like he’s an idiot. “My house, my rules,” she says seriously. 

“Well fuck. You break into my place and bring me here then it’s all your rules?” Quinn responds, just to keep the argument going while he figures a way out. “Remember, you’re the one that told me to fuck off, Carrie.”

She wasn’t actually angry before but now she’s starting to look really pissed off. Pissed off is good, Quinn thinks. Good chance he can make her storm out. 

But of course the next words out of her completely change the game. 

“Well, maybe I was wrong,” she says angrily. 

Quinn raises his eyebrows, a little explosion goes off in his chest. 

“You? Carrie? Wrong?” he asks.

Carrie glares at him in return but he sees the hint of a frustrated smile. “Fuck you, Quinn,” she says. “Maybe I don’t have to do everything on my own.” 

Quinn looks at her, another bomb bursting in him. This is what he wanted from her the whole fucking time. Of course she pulls it out when it works against him. And while he wanted her to need him, him needing Carrie is a whole other story - one he hasn’t committed to yet. Because it’s been a fuck long time since he’s needed anyone and he’s learned from the past that need leads to disappointment; that it’s a weakness to be conquered. 

“Maybe?” he asks, wondering if she will backpedal on her words, make the whole conversation easier. 

But for once Carrie is looking at him with unguarded eyes. He sees a glimpse of the few moments she has been completely honest with him and thinks shit, this is not the time for honesty.

“Maybe I was really fucking worried, Quinn,” she says. “Maybe I had a lot of time to think how I fucked everything up.” 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to admit this is what he wanted. 

“Maybe I fucking missed you,” she admits, looking at him, daggers in her eyes. Only Carrie would look so angry while telling him that she missed him.

If she knew how much he had fucking missed her she’d probably run for the hills. So Quinn doesn’t say anything but looks at her and wonders why he’s arguing with her. This whole thing does still make him uncomfortable - especially with Carrie. She does not fit the nursing type, her empathy so often overshadowed by her own immediate needs. He can’t believe he’s here at all, that she’s willing to take in his pathetic invalid ass. He thinks it must be really bad for Carrie to give a shit, to give up her privacy. And if it’s really bad, he doesn’t want her around to see it, see him weak and defenseless. 

But then again this is what he wanted, to be in the position to make sure Carrie’s alright, to be permanently informed on her safety and well-being. Which sounds creepy, he knows. But for whatever reason, it’s what he needs. 

So its his self-dignity against his desires. Fly solo or ride tandem. 

He looks at Carrie and she is starting to look nervous, like she admitted too much. Quinn thinks how hard this is for her, the queen of solo flights. 

“Shit, Carrie. I fucking missed you too,” he says. “Now you know how it feels.” 

Carrie frowns at him, pokes him in the shoulder. “Now will you sit up so I can change your fucking bandages?” she says gruffly. 

Quinn gives her a glare but does as asked, feels her pull the wet bandages off of him. They both look at his chest, Quinn realizing he hasn’t even seen the wounds yet. 

Carrie makes a tiny gasp before her expression settles into a sad grimace. She runs her fingers gently across the big red mess on his abdomen, touches the hole in his chest where they had stuck the tube into his lung, holds her hand over the dark purple of his ribs, above his heart. Quinn tries his best to relax, to let her look. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she says. “What the hell happened?” 

“I fucked up,” he replies. “Sniper got me twice. I should have noticed him there. Really I should be dead.” 

Carrie finishes examining his wounds, starts putting antibiotic cream on the stitches.

“You never fuck up,” she says. “So what went wrong?” 

“I never fucked up til I met you,” he says, wondering where the hell the words came from. “Now I’m a walking disaster.” 

It’s true but he never quite realized it so strongly before. All this shit has happened since he started working with Carrie; he’s never fucked anything up before. 

Carrie looks at him oddly and for a second he thinks she’s going to get up and leave. But instead she just takes a breath and picks up the gauze, starts wrapping it around him tightly. 

He breathes in sharply, even the touch of the cloth on his body enough to make him wince. 

“So what is it about me?” she asks and he wonders how the fuck he can answer that question. What is it about her? Pretty much everything, he thinks. 

“Fuck Carrie, I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “But shit is different with you around, I don’t have the same focus and I can’t do my job without it.”

This is it, he thinks, exactly the problem. Quinn has always had his eyes on the prize but all of a sudden the prize changed. The job had always been the priority but now things aren’t so clear. 

Carrie finishes taping up his stomach, gives the bandage job a little pat with her hand and he thinks it really wasn’t that humiliating, that it almost felt good. 

“So now what?” she asks. “You going to just disappear again as soon as you can?” 

Quinn looks at her, wonders what she wants him to say. He’s had to make this choice before and the job has always won. Now the job is losing handily, is barely a consideration. But he knows it isn’t fair to Carrie to stay around for her if she doesn’t want it. And despite what she’s said, he’s still not sure what she wants. Hell, he’s not sure what he wants. Or how any of this might work. 

“You know how it is, Carrie. This kind of work, I can’t have any ties. It’s the life I chose,” he says grimly. “But I don’t know if I can do it anymore. I know I don’t want to.” 

She covers the sutures on his chest with another bandage as he bares himself to her and, as Quinn feels her fingertips over his bruise, he wonders why he resisted this at all. He was wrong about Carrie as a nurse - she’s serious but soft, with steady hands and a warm touch. 

And maybe it’s the painkillers kicking in but he suddenly wants to tell her everything, lay bare his secrets, show her the real Peter Quinn. But he’s still with it enough to know he can’t tell her that almost all of his idle thoughts fall her way - she has enough going on emotionally without him pushing into that territory. Honestly, he doesn’t know if he’d be brave enough to go there, thinks she would possibly emasculate him just for trying. 

“When I got shot, I was thinking about you. My head wasn’t in the game,” he says anyways. “It fucking happens a lot lately.”

Carrie finishes with the bandage, looks at him sternly. 

“No more fucking up, Quinn,” she admonishes. Her eyes are sharp but he sees something else sneaking through. 

Quinn nods, thinks his life is about to wander down an alternate path. The way she is looking at him, he knows there’s no going back. 

“You almost died,” she states softly, as if it’s a secret. “Brody just fucking died and now you.”

Quinn nods again, wonders how she is so upset about it. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t even consider him a friend, possibly just an expendable work colleague. Not that she wouldn’t care but he never imagined she’d get it together to find him. He may have wished for it at some point but decided it was impossible - no one knew where he lived, he always made sure of that. Even if he had a phone he probably wouldn’t have called her. He wonders how she did it, will get her to tell him later. But he already knows that nothing else had gotten her to leave her place in over a month and now she’s been out at least twice due to his pathetic self. 

“I would have been really fucking sad, Quinn,” Carrie says with a frown. 

“You’re already fucking sad, Carrie,” he croaks. 

She swats him lightly with her hand. “Well I would have been even fucking sadder,” she replies.

“Good thing you found me then,” he mumbles back.

“Well I had to,” she says. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch to you.” 

Quinn laughs and instantly regrets it as it leads to a spate of coughing and he becomes a breathless mess. But the bitchiness is just part of the Carrie charm, he thinks. It will take a lot more than that to get rid of him. 

“I can take it,” he mutters in return. 

Carrie almost smiles then, but looks concerned about his coughing fit. She puts her hand lightly against his ribs and he breathes into it until he stops heaving. Her touch is calm and settling, unlike anything else in her personality and Quinn wonders if she will ever stop surprising him. Then she pats him on the head like a little boy and leans down to give him a glancing kiss on the forehead and he thinks ‘nope, never’. He closes his eyes, thinks this is too much, that possibly he’s still delirious and dying in his shithole and this is just a fantasy. 

“You look like shit, Quinn,” she says. “I got us some food. Eat something and then sleep, alright?” 

He opens his eyes and she’s still there in solid form, tapping him on the hand, looking at him for a response. 

“Only if you do too,” he replies. 

Carrie rolls her eyes, half-scowls at him. “Fine,” she says, with fake attitude. 

She goes to get the food and Quinn sits contemplating his situation. He is willing to admit she probably saved his life, that no one else would have come around to find him and he was too weak to have saved himself, too useless to bother. And now she seems to have completely flip-flopped on her position on him in her life. No wonder he keeps thinking this is just a fever dream, a last happy gasp before death. 

But Carrie comes back with a deli bag and the food is real enough, as is her continued presence on the edge of his bed. Quinn looks at the two of them eating in bed, pale gaunt figures, each trying their best to have an appetite. 

He moves over, pulls Carrie on beside him, smiles as she finishes her sandwich. She looks at him sternly and he returns to his food, gingerly takes a bite. 

When he starts to feel nauseous and gives up on the food she cleans up and takes his temperature. It feels ridiculous - he hasn’t let someone take his temperature since he was a kid - but the cool touch of her hand against his forehead is enough compensation for his humiliation. 

“You’re running a pretty high fever,” she says. “But the antibiotics should get that down.” 

As if on cue, he shivers, suddenly hit by a chill and Carrie helps him struggle into a t-shirt, then makes him lie down and covers him tightly with the duvet. She pats him on the head again and he thinks how it would usually piss him off but right now he doesn’t mind. 

“Sleep, Quinn,” she says. “You need to heal.” 

Quinn nods, thinks he won’t be able to stay conscious long even if he tried. 

“Night, Carrie,” he mutters. “Thanks for saving my sorry ass.”

He can hear the smile in her voice as she responds. “Your ass is fine, Quinn. It’s the rest of you I’m worried about.” 

Quinn smiles drowsily as he closes his eyes, thinking about how fucked up things have been since Carrie Mathison appeared in his life. And that’s in relation to his already fucked up life as a government assassin. He likes linear things, order and calm precision. She is as fucking nonlinear as things get, a bipolar case agent who disregards every rule. 

But as he lies there with the warmth of her hand still on his skin Quinn knows he’s finally found a reason to stick around. And it only took two bullet wounds and some extreme pain for Carrie to admit she wants him to stay. 

Pretty good fucking deal, he thinks as he drifts into unconsciousness. 

\-------------


	8. Carrie IV

\-------------  
Carrie IV  
\-------------

Carrie’s drinking coffee, eating a bagel when Quinn shuffles out of his room, leaning on the railing to make it down the stairs. 

He probably shouldn’t be out of bed yet but he’s a stubborn bastard, still trying to do everything himself. But when he makes it into the kitchen she notices he is actually starting to look better, the pallor of fever and death mostly gone now after a week spent mostly in bed. He even takes half her bagel and stuffs it in his mouth before she can smack his hand. 

Quinn gives her a dickish smile but gets up to grab some coffee and puts another bagel in the toaster. 

“I was hungry,” he says with a shrug. 

Carrie gives him a scowl that turns into a smirk. “I see you’re feeling better,” she says. 

He nods, then winces as the coffee hits his still-fragile intestines. “Doing great. You haven’t found me passed out naked and shivering for days now,” he says dryly as he takes another sip. 

Carrie tries not to smile, thinks it’s been good to have a task, something she’s had to do. While she wasn’t so into taking care of herself lately, she didn’t have much choice when it came to Quinn. No one else was going to do it and the idiot would have preferred to die before asking for help. 

So she actually did the mundane things she neglects when she’s depressed; go outside, buy food, eat food, answer email. She wants to go freak out at Adal, let her anger out on him for dumping Quinn off to die on his own in a shithole. But she also maybe wants her job, doesn’t need to give them more ammunition to use against her. So she tells herself it was at least half Quinn’s fault too - she’s sure he could have asked to go to a hospital and didn’t due to being a stubborn ass. At least he’s felt so shitty she can’t be too pissed at him. 

“You look better,” she admits. “But I still think you’re going to fall down the fucking stairs.” 

Quinn laughs, then sputters. She’s used to this by now, his fucked up lungs and ribs are still obviously very sore, will be for at least another couple weeks. It’s too bad because she kind of likes it when he laughs, he’s so fucking serious all the time, so tightly wound.

“Let’s go outside,” he declares. “For a walk.” 

Carrie shrugs, thinks what the hell. The worst thing that could happen is he passes out while walking and then he can deal with the embarrassment of an ambulance showing up for him. 

“Alright, let’s go,” she says, finishing her coffee and grabbing the freshly toasted bagel. 

Quinn looks surprised but pleased, pushes himself up with the help of the table. He looks a bit derelict in his sweatpants and cheap shirt but doesn’t seem to give a shit as he follows her out the door at a weak shuffle. 

They walk, shuffle towards a small park in the area and Quinn looks determined but waning. After about ten minutes she can see the park but wonders if Quinn is going to make it that far. 

“Let’s go back,” she says, stopping. But Quinn shakes his head. 

“We’re going to the park, Carrie,” he argues. 

Carrie frowns at him but doesn’t bother responding, just shrugs and keeps walking and watching. Making sure he doesn’t fall and crack his head on something. 

They make it to the park and he pretends to not collapse on the first bench he sees. Carrie sits down next to him and covers him with a concerned eye. Quinn looks flush and exhausted from the short walk but at least he’s gained some colour. And he looks pleased with himself to be here, outside at the park. 

“Do that breathing shit,” she says once he’s caught his breath. 

Quinn grimaces but complies, does his prescribed deep breathing exercises while she watches to try and see how deep his breaths go.

She can tell it hurts but he pulls each breath in right to the bottom of his lungs, even as it starts to make him sweat. He only chokes on one long last breath and recovers quickly, without much hacking. 

Carrie lets herself breathe too, remembers that he’s steadily improving, that she doesn’t need to be quite so worried about him anymore. She looks around the park to calm herself, to let him compose himself, and notices it’s fairly busy for a weekday morning, toddlers and nannies on the playground, young moms jogging with strollers. 

Of course, as soon as she stops worrying about Quinn, Carrie starts worrying about the baby. And sitting in park full of kids is not helping the anxiety. 

By now it seems inevitable that she’s going to have this baby, her baby. It was not so much determined by wanting it as by not being able to get rid of it. And what does that say, she wonders. Not a very auspicious way to go into motherhood. 

And now, just watching them wears on her sanity - how can she possibly think of taking care of one on her own? Carrie knows herself well, knows her patience is in short supply already, knows she is often blunt and can be mean. She just figures other adults should be able to take it. It’s obviously fucking different when it comes to a baby though. 

She looks over at Quinn, sees him watching the kids at the playground furtively, trying not to look like a creep. She wonders what he is thinking, can see some unidentified emotion going on behind his eyes. 

Carrie remembers what Virgil told her after they broke into Quinn’s apartment, about the photo. But back then she remembers not caring, not finding it particularly significant that Quinn had some kid with some chick somewhere. Everyone has a past and black ops guys were generally running from something. 

But now she remembers Quinn saying something about having to make a choice like this before, regretting his decision. And she knows enough about the kinds of thoughts he’s been having lately to guess where his mind is. He’s looking for a change, he’s lost his drive. She wonders if he ever sees his kid, can’t picture him as a dad, can’t imagine him sticking around in that kind of situation. He’s a lone wolf type, classic black ops - it’s why she never believed he was an analyst right from the start. 

“I don’t think I can do it,” she says quietly. 

Quinn turns his head and looks at her with a frown. “I’m fairly sure there’s nothing you can’t do, Carrie,” he replies, all seriousness.

Carrie huffs a laugh. 

“Only a million things, Quinn. Be patient, be calm, spend my life walking a screaming kid around in a stroller. I can’t do any of those things,” she scoffs. “I can barely get up and feed myself these days. What the hell am I going to do with a baby to take care of?” 

She knows he’s heard this all before, it’s all that she says when the subject of the baby is brought up. Carrie knows it’s true, thinks of how having a bipolar father fucked things up in her life, is self-aware enough to know her own deficiencies. 

It would have been different with Brody - he already was a father, no matter how fucked up his family situation was at least he had the experience. And even then, look how hard he tried for his kids and how things ended up with them. 

And now, she’s all on her own. Maggie’s already got two kids and a full life. Her dad would help out but he doesn’t need the extra stress in his life. And she doesn’t want to put this on them, she needs to deal with her own shit. 

Quinn is looking at her with the same concerned frown. “You’ll find a way, Carrie,” he says. “You took care if me.” 

She lets out a frustrated breath. “It’s not the same shit, Quinn,” she retorts. “I’m not made for this. I can’t even deal with my own crap.” 

He keeps looking at her, shrugs nonchalantly like it’s not that big a concern. “I know you’re scared, Carrie,” he says. “But you won’t be on your own, you’ll have people around to help.” 

Carrie scowls, fires back. “Maggie is too busy to deal with me, let alone me and a newborn. My dad has enough trouble managing without the stress of my life,” she retorts. “So what you’re going to stay and be the nanny when I go back to work?”

Quinn gets a twitch of a smile, has a contemplative look in his eyes. He doesn’t respond except to put his arm around her shoulders. 

Carrie hates this, he is too close and she still finds it terrifying, even though she’s the one who invited him in. She gives him a glare, silently urges him to remove his touch. 

But he just looks steadily back, doesn’t move his arm. “Whatever you need, Carrie,” he responds. 

He keeps telling her this and sometimes it’s too much. Too much pressure to be watched over, to have his concern all over her. 

So she stands up, pushes his arm off. He looks briefly disappointed but hides it well, struggles to get himself up from the bench. 

Quinn grunts in pain and she tries not to look back in concern as he surreptitiously shoves a few pills into his mouth. 

They walk back in silence, Carrie holding her pace back to make sure he keeps up. She’s annoyed with him, hates that he keeps telling her she can do shit she’s sure she can’t do. But she still keeps close enough to watch out for him, to catch him if he falls.

Quinn catches up, she can hear him breathing hard through his fucked up lung. He looks wiped out and she thinks he actually might pass out but he grits his teeth through it and sweats his way all the way back to her place. 

Carrie helps him up the stairs, drops him unceremoniously into bed where he instantly drops out of consciousness from the combination of exhaustion and pain medication. 

She stands there for a moment looking at him, wondering how the fuck her life got to this point. Two months ago she was going to run away with Brody, ditch the CIA, play house with the object of her obsession. Now she’s here, playing nurse to a guy she once thought she hated. 

Carrie has to admit it’s been good to have him around, something else to occupy her mind. But now that he’s not sleeping through most of the day it’s harder - she almost forgot how challenging he can be. Obstinate. Relentless. 

In a way it’s comfortable, in another way it’s horribly awkward. She’s not used to having anyone around, especially after being in self-imposed solitary confinement for over a month. And she definitely does not want to let Quinn get any closer. Though it doesn’t get much closer than living together, she thinks. 

It’s barely noon but Carrie is already exhausted from thinking about her problems. She puts a blanket over Quinn and goes downstairs, still wondering where the hell her life is going. 

She hears her phone ring, doesn’t bother to answer it. It’s most likely Maggie or her dad and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment. But when she checks her voicemail Carrie finds that the CIA has finally called. Adal, of all people, trying to sound conciliatory, asking her to return the call urgently. This should be a good sign - obviously they need her for something. But today it only adds to her exhaustion, her confusion over her life, her purpose. She knows she will call back but not as urgently as he would like. She hopes it pisses him off, wants to throw it in his smug face. 

Carrie sits on the couch, head in her hands, asks herself what the fuck she wants. And the answer is still the same, she wants Brody, wants the life she thought they could have, wants to have saved him, wants the past few years of her life to have counted for something other than death and heartbreak. 

She takes a well-worn book off the table, pulls a photo out from amongst the pages. It’s a picture of Brody, the only one she has left after tearing apart her Brody wall the night of the debrief. The next morning she had found the place magically cleaned up, all evidence of her rampage gone, this one untorn photo left on her coffee table. Quinn, of course. 

Carrie stares at the photo, thinks of all the things that could have been, how hard she tried yet still failed. She misses him, has been missing him for a long time now, since the fucking bomb at the CIA really. Like usual, she thinks how they really only had a few actual days together, how fucked up all of it was, how fucked up she was to fall for a guy that sold her out, lied to her face time and time again. A murderer, a terrorist, an adulterer, an addict. All those things. But other things too. 

A tear slips out and it starts a torrent. All of her fuck ups, her fears, her love, her grief come pouring out as she looks at Brody’s photo. She doesn’t even bother to try and stop, not even when she hears footsteps on the stairs. 

Quinn walks over slowly, sits down next to her on the couch. He looks at her with his usual concern. 

“Are you okay, Carrie?” he asks. 

“Do I look fucking okay?” she answers, with an incredulous look. 

Quinn nods his head as if to say she made a good point. But he doesn’t stop looking at her. 

“Tell me what you need,” he says. 

Tell him what she needs? She needs Brody to have survived, for it all to have amounted to something. She needs a plan for this baby, especially if she’s going back to work. She does not need being asked if she’s okay when she’s clearly not fucking okay. 

“Well I don’t need you hovering around,” she replies, no longer crying. 

Quinn frowns. “Why am I here then?” he asks with barely contained anger.

“Because you’re too fucking stubborn to go to a hospital and I couldn’t exactly just let you die in that hellhole,” she fires back. 

Now he looks properly pissed off and Carrie is perversely pleased with herself. Still has the knack, she thinks. 

“Well I’m not dying anymore. Just tell me if you want me to leave,” he counters. 

Carrie looks at him seriously. Thinks it could be that easy. But she’s not sure she wants him to leave. It is true he wouldn’t be likely to die anymore, hasn’t ran a fever in a couple days. It would be easier being back on her own, it’s what she’s used to. And obviously he has to leave at some point anyhow. 

But he really is still weak as shit, hasn’t eaten properly in weeks. He toughs it out without a word but she can tell he’s worn down. It would be pretty shitty of her to kick him out after everything that’s happened. 

“Fuck. I don’t know what I want,” she says. “What do you want, Quinn?”

Quinn looks surprised she asked but answers right away. 

“I want you to be okay,” he says. 

Carrie doesn’t know why it makes her so furious when he says this but it always does. She hates the idea that he’s sticking around to make everything okay for her, that he doesn’t have any other purpose. 

“Fuck! Why the hell am I any concern of yours, Quinn?” she asks. “You don’t even know me.” 

Quinn furrows his brow, looks at her intently. “Don’t tell me what I know,” he replies darkly. 

“What do you know then?” she spits, glaring at him.

He keeps his eyes on her for a long time, doesn’t reply. Carrie starts to feel uncomfortable, under the microscope and is about to stand up and relieve the tension when he finally speaks. 

“I know you’re hurting but you’re a survivor,” he says. “I know it’s easier for you to be alone, that you’re scared of having people around that give a shit about you.” 

She hates it because what he says is true, succinctly captures much of her story. 

“So why do you give a shit?” she asks. “You still haven’t explained that.” 

Quinn looks contemplative, breathes a sigh. “I was fucking naive. I thought I was protecting the world but I was just serving an agenda,” he says resentfully. “It’s time I make my own choices about who I’m protecting and know I’m doing something for the greater good. So I want to be around to make sure things are okay for you.” 

Carrie scowls. “You can’t even fucking walk to the park and back, Quinn,” she snaps. “How the hell are you going to make things okay?” 

Quinn tries to stop a laugh but chokes on it, groans in reaction to his constantly sore ribs. 

“See, I don’t need you,” Carrie says meanly. 

He frowns again but now he looks more sad, less pissed off. “I know,” he replies. “You keep making that very clear.” 

They sit together, the air tense between them. Carrie thinks about where this is all going, wonders when Quinn will finally fall out of her life. She’s going back to work soon and he will probably be reassigned - black ops guys never stayed in one place very long. So logistically he could be forced out of her life soon and with their jobs and schedules the likelihood of crossing paths would be low. 

And normally she would have decided that it would be best to just tell him to leave now and let the course of life then keep them apart. But she can tell he’s already tired from being out of bed, hears his shallow breaths. She tries to remember how worried she had been, the various things she offered to deities if they helped her find him. 

“I’ll order takeout,” she finally says after what seems like an hour of silence. 

Quinn opens his eyes, seems to try and blink away his tiredness. “I thought you wanted me to leave,” he croaks.

“I didn’t say that, I just said I don’t need you,” Carrie counters. “But you still need someone around to take care of your pathetic ass.” 

Quinn is instantly no longer drowsy, looks right pissed off. “I’m fine. And I’m leaving,” he snaps, pushing himself up from the couch quickly. He looks like he might pass out from the quick movement and she grabs his hand, pulls him back down. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry Quinn,” she says, angry yet apologetic. “That was a shitty thing to say. Everything’s just all so fucked up right now.”

He doesn’t try to get back up but she can see there is real anger in his eyes, his body. 

“When wasn’t it?” he asks. 

Carrie nods to concede the point. Things have been truly fucked up for years now, her already manic emotions hitting both higher and lower than ever before. 

She looks at Quinn and he is still pissed off. She realizes she likes him this way, on edge and ready to fire. It’s much easier to deal with than when he’s full of quiet concern. Maybe it’s why she incites him so frequently. 

“Indian?” she asks, her way of apologizing. 

His eyes still hold some fire but he looks more relaxed already. Finally he nods. “I’m fucking hungry,” he admits.

Carrie breathes a little sigh of relief, gets up to make the call. She would have felt shitty if he’d left, if she’d pushed him out. She reminds herself it’s just until he’s back on his feet, that she doesn’t always hate having him around. 

By the time she’s done ordering from his preferred restaurant Quinn’s just about fallen asleep again, sitting on the couch. She sometimes forgets he was barely alive just a week ago, that he is still fragile under the stoic exterior. He is skinny as shit, still pale. 

Carrie picks up her keys, leaves to get their food, realizes she will be eating a lot of indian food if she’s to fatten him up. The thought of that makes her flash a smile and its only then that she realizes she really does give a shit about him. Which seems ridiculous after all the time she worried about him - but the source of her worry then had mostly been guilt. More about her than about him. 

But now the worry is gone and the guilt is mostly hidden. And yet she still doesn’t quite want to be rid of him. 

This is uncharted territory for her and she is nervous as shit. But Carrie brings home the food and makes sure he eats his share. Then watches him up to bed, reminds him to take his meds. He’s still a bit testy, has his own walls up but she knows it’s her own goddamned fault. 

Carrie waits until he’s in bed then goes to check on him as she does every night. Just to reassure herself that he’s there and alive, that she didn’t send him off to die.

He’s still awake when she walks in but doesn’t look her way. “You just decided now that you want me to leave?” he asks, deadpan. 

Carrie smiles a bit, takes the jibe because she knows she deserves it. “I’m sorry I’m so fucking moody. But that’s just how it is and you should know that if you’re going to be around me,” she states. “Still, I’m glad you didn’t leave.”

Quinn finally looks at her and she can tell he is both pissed and pleased, that he knows it’s as close to an apology as he’s going to get.

“You would have just found me passed out in the park and dragged me back here,” he finally concedes. 

Carrie hides her smile but a little laugh squeezes through. “Goodnight Quinn,” she says. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

\-------------


	9. Quinn V

\-------------  
Quinn V  
\-------------

Quinn wakes up to the sound of smashing glass and Carrie swearing, then remembers why she’s up so early breaking dishes. He knows she’s nervous, has felt her anxiety build since the CIA first called her into a meeting. But true to form she hasn’t said anything to him about it, tried to make it seem completely casual that she might be going back to work for the people that betrayed her. 

Quinn hauls himself out of bed gingerly, wary of the pain that most movements still bring. He is frustrated by his own perceived lack of progress, has always considered himself a quick healer, able to tough anything out. But now it’s been two weeks and he’s still having trouble with his ribs, his fucked up lung. He’s fucking sick of being injured, sitting around practicing breathing at the park. The only consolation is his park companion but lately she’s been a conflicted headcase. 

She thinks she needs the job. And maybe she’s right, she really is fucking good at it. But to go back now, to the people that screwed her over after she beat all odds. It was a mind fuck for sure and obviously she isn’t interested in talking about it. At least not to him. 

So instead she’s been anxiously pacing, thinking, self-debating. Now that his invalid ass wasn’t quite as pathetic he had taken over the acquisition of food, especially since she started forgoing eating in order to stress out more. 

Quinn makes his way to the kitchen as quickly and calmly as his ribs allow, tries not to look out of breath as he walks in to see Carrie wearing most of a cup of coffee, walking around in bare feet with broken glass everywhere. 

“Jesus, Carrie,” he says. “Sit down, you’re going to cut yourself.” 

Carrie frowns at him as if only just now noticing his presence. “I’m fine,” she answers, looking more tense and anxious than fine. 

He gives her a stern look and she scowls at him which actually probably does mean she’s alright. At least it’s what he expects from her. 

“Carrie, sit down or stand still,” he demands. 

She doesn’t respond but stops walking around as Quinn sweeps the broken glass into the recycling bin.

“I’ll make you a coffee to go while you get changed,” he says when he’s done, thinking how it's still strange to be playing house with Carrie. But it’s been mostly working, even a few moments when he thinks she might actually be enjoying his company. 

Carrie sighs. “I don’t have enough fat clothes to deal with this shit,” she says as she stomps out of the kitchen. 

Quinn silently laughs to himself as he watches her leave, thinks she isn’t showing much for how far along she is. She still doesn’t eat enough, always looks anemic. But he knows better than to get on her about eating well, just keeps ordering food he hopes will appeal to her. 

She comes back ten minutes later looking harried and annoyed and Quinn almost smiles at the familiarity of it. This is on-the-job Carrie, he almost forgot about her, it’s been awhile since they actually worked together, since before Tehran. 

Quinn passes her the coffee and she frowns as she’s thanking him, then stops just before she gets to the front door. 

Carrie looks to be thinking, very focused and he doesn’t want to step in on the moment so he just watches to see what happens. 

“What the fuck am I doing, Quinn?” she finally asks with a deep sigh.

Good question, he’s been wondering the same thing himself. How going back to the CIA is selling your soul, but somehow it ends up being the best choice. He knows they could leave, Saul seems to be doing fine in the private world but he also knows Carrie’s stubbornness, her ability. She is out there to do good, to solve the world’s problems, a fucking idealist at heart. And if they need her, she will have a hard time saying no. 

“You’re doing what you have to do,” he answers. “You’re going to see why they need you, then you’ll decide if you want to do it.”

Carrie huffs. “Maybe I don’t want to do it anymore,” she replies. 

Quinn shrugs. “Maybe not,” he agrees. “But we both know you’re going to go to the meeting.” 

She scowls at him because he’s right. “You think you know me so fucking well,” she says, only half-sarcastically. 

Quinn holds back a smile but he knows a hint of it shows through. There is something about her abruptness that he truly appreciates. 

“They need you,” he reminds her. “You’re in the driver’s seat.” 

Carrie nods, breathes out slowly and reaches for the doorknob. 

“This is bullshit,” she says as she leaves, slamming the door.

Quinn finally lets himself smile. He rather likes it when Carrie’s pissed off, just not when she’s pissed at him. And he agrees. It definitely is bullshit. 

He thinks how right now it’s just her, seven months pregnant, out there on her own. No Saul to watch out for her. Not that Saul didn’t fuck her over in his own way. And even when Quinn gets back to the job there’s no guarantees he will be around to make sure she’s okay. Actually, likely the opposite.

He’s been thinking a lot about what will happen when he gets his own call from the CIA, what Adal has in store for him. Quinn knows he’s not in the good books, that he is likely to be reassigned to some shit operation or something high-risk. And most likely something as far away from Carrie as possible. It’s no secret Adal thinks Carrie’s gotten in the way of Quinn’s abilities, his loyalties. But it’s not just Carrie, Quinn thinks. It’s the whole fucking game, the cycle of death after death. Playing god in the name of a government that doesn’t know what it’s doing. 

And he almost died doing it, playing this fucked up game. Now Carrie’s probably going back to it. And what does that mean for him?

He keeps wondering how the hell his life got so complicated. Ever since he was given this Brody operation, ever since he met Carrie Mathison. Before that it was just mission after mission, kill after kill. No personal life, no friends, some acquaintances with benefits when parked in one place for some time. Not a single complication since Julia kicked him out of her life. And now there isn’t a part of his existence that isn’t complicated. 

Quinn swallows some coffee, puts on some toast. Thinks how living with Carrie hasn’t helped either one of them in terms of culinary skills, thinks how living with Carrie is a complication he could never have even seen coming. 

It has to end sometime, he thinks. Sometime sooner than later really. He is back on his feet, able to fend for himself and Carrie seems to be holding her own as well. She’s stressed about the baby and going back to work but still doing the shit that needs to be done. 

Quinn knows the CIA will come looking for him soon, that he needs to be ready for whatever comes his way. And the truth is he’s not ready at all - doesn’t want the job, doesn’t believe in any of it. But quitting comes with its own problems, because then what would he do with his life? Hire himself out as Carrie’s personal bodyguard/man-nurse? 

It’s not a bad fucking idea really. She obviously needs it and he doesn’t give a shit that the job doesn’t pay. Well, it’s not a bad idea until the part where she tears him a new asshole for suggesting it. 

Quinn shakes his head and finishes his coffee, wonders again how the fuck things got to be so difficult. He gets up, washes the dishes and sets out solo for their daily walk to the park. 

As he walks Quinn thinks how he’s feeling less shitty in general but that it’s still a challenge just to breathe deep and walk to the park. Fucking pathetic really, not in any shape for the job, not in any shape to do anyone any good. 

He figures Carrie will be back to work very soon, Adal wouldn’t have called this meeting unless their need for her was immediate. Quinn’s sure Adal’s pissed they need Carrie for anything, he has no patience for her fucking head-strong ways. 

Fuck, he thinks. Why do all his fucking thoughts always end up at Carrie? He knows he is getting way too emotionally attached to her situation. He thinks he’s managed to hide some of it behind his well-practiced stony expression but it’s pretty fucking difficult when they’ve been living together.

Which brings him back to the real point. That he has to move himself out, give her some space and start to un-complicate their situation. 

Quinn sees the park but decides to keep going, push his limits a bit. He doesn’t feel the ache yet in his chest or any of the usual fatigue but he can still hear Carrie in his mind, telling him he should sit down before he passes out. 

Thankfully ghost Carrie is easier to ignore than the real one and he keeps going, thinks he can make it pretty far with the way he’s feeling today. Ghost Carrie admonishes him but he just smiles and keeps walking, thinking how fucked up it is he’s still walking with her when she’s miles away at Langley, getting on with her life. 

So now it’s just up to him. To get on with his life. And he knows what step one is but isn’t sure he wants to face it. 

Rationally he knows he should try and pull away from this attachment that has complicated his life. With their lifestyles and their jobs it was nearly impossible that he could find a way to stick around and look out for her. He knows she will eventually be on the move, could be back in the Middle East soon, depending on what ends up happening with the baby. And with Adal choosing assignments, Quinn will probably be as far away as possible. 

So he knows he should just back away emotionally, get her out of his head. He’s done it before, it’s an essential skill with his lifestyle. The problem this time is he doesn’t want to back away, he wants to stay right where he is. 

But his self-dignity tells him he has to leave. Carrie took pity on his pathetic ass but now he’s fine, just sore and weak. And while she’s stopped telling him to leave her alone, she still makes it abundantly clear she doesn’t need him around, that he’s there for his sake only. 

Not that there aren’t moments he thinks she enjoys his company. They’ve even had some real conversations, those times when Carrie opens up and lets it all out. In those moments he sees it all and it is soul-destroying to see her grief. He doesn’t understand how she copes with the strength of her emotions, it’s just another unfathomable aspect of Carrie’s existence. But he feels honoured, part of an exclusive club given a glimpse into her thoughts. 

Which brings him back to the problem. Quinn knows he is in way too deep, far past the emotional point of no return. He’s already too entangled in her life, the subject of questions from her sister and father. He imagines she just says oh he’s just an asshole from work recovering from multiple gun shot wounds. He’s a dick but I felt guilty about letting him die. 

Which is basically the truth. And which gives him his answer. 

Quinn stops walking, looks around and finds himself in unfamiliar territory. The neighbourhood looks rougher than Carrie’s, no yoga wives and nannies with strollers. He wonders how far he’s gone, notices that he’s sweating and his heart rate is up. 

Fuck, he thinks, suddenly realizing how low in energy he feels. Trying to work out his problems had fueled him to this point but now he finds that he’s overexerted himself and has no idea where he is. 

Quinn finds a shabby park nearby and just manages to get himself to a bench just before he loses most of his physical ability. This is something he hasn't felt in ages, hitting the wall, being unable to muster up any energy to get his body to perform simple tasks. Even in his half-conscious state he knows how emasculating and pathetic it is to be useless on a park bench, literally too exhausted from walking to get up and find his way back. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking he will just rest for a minute before figuring his way out of the situation. 

\-------------

Quinn blinks his eyes open, wonders for a second why he feels so stiff before realizing he was sleeping on a hard wooden bench. He checks for his wallet and phone, then remembers he left Carrie’s without either. He wonders what time it is, how long he was out for. Looking around for clues he sees a few people around, a mix of blue collar workers and college students. But quickly Quinn realizes they are all heading away from the park due to darkening clouds and the drops starting to emerge from the grey sky. 

Quinn gets up, feels mildly refreshed from his impromptu nap, starts walking vaguely towards the direction he came from. He asks a student for directions and gets a nominal idea of how far he walked. More than a few miles by the sounds of things. It will take a while to get back, he thinks just as the rain really begins to fall. 

Instantly the jeans and t-shirt he’s wearing are soaked through and every step becomes heavier with the added weight of wet cotton. Quinn curses at the sky but it doesn’t let up, just consistently releases drop after drop as he plods on uncertainly in the direction of Carrie’s place. 

He thinks he’s been walking for over an hour when the sky begins to darken significantly and he realizes he must have slept for longer than he thought. Quinn wonders if Carrie is flipping her shit wondering where he disappeared to or if she’s glad to have her space to herself to consider things after her meeting. He hopes its the latter as he still seems to be nowhere near her place though the neighbourhoods are starting to look more gentrified and familiar. 

Another hour later Quinn is cursing his idiot self for taking himself on a fucking expedition without considering he would have to make it back. He figures he’s walked over four hours total already when a half an hour was the longest he’d been moving since he got shot. And he’s really starting to feel the consequences of prolonged activity on his current condition. 

It’s something he hasn’t felt in a long time, not since the extreme physical training sessions he’s been put through in the distant past. When your body is worked to the point of pure exhaustion, when every calorie that can be put to work has been burned long ago and your muscle fibres are seizing due to lack of nutrients. 

At some point Quinn realizes he’s shivering and probably has been for a long time. His steps have slowed to a pathetic shuffle and even so he can barely stay on his feet, his balance affected by pure lack of energy to both his muscles and his brain. He starts to think he should flag down a car, try and get a ride but is with it enough to realize he’s soaking and unlikely to convince anyone to stop. And regardless, he is still determined to make it, thinks he can do it as long as he just keeps putting one foot in front of the other. Even if it takes him all night, even if he ends up crawling the last few feet. What choice does he have anyways other than sleeping soaking wet in the hypothermic rain? 

Quinn is so absorbed in the endless task of putting one foot in front of the other he doesn’t hear the car honking at him, his mind completely given over to maintaining forward movement. It’s not until the car pulls over and Carrie jumps out yelling at him that he manages to notice what’s happening. 

“What the fuck, Quinn?” she hollers as she approaches. “Where the hell have you been?” 

Thankfully he is too cold to talk, just hunkers down into a deep shiver, waits for her to take pity on his hypothermic ass. He must have gotten his point across because she immediately looks more concerned than angry and grabs one of his hands, feeling it for warmth. 

“Shit, you’re freezing,” she says. “Get in the car.” 

Quinn tries his best to ambulate towards the car but even though it’s only about six feet away, right now the journey seems near impossible. He tries to walk but his joints are weak with shivers, numb from the cold. Finally he feels Carrie’s hand on his back, pushing him forward and he is able to fall into the passenger seat, soaking and shaking, incredibly thankful to be sitting down. 

Carrie closes his door, gets in the driver’s side. She examines him with a critical eye. “You should take your shirt off,” she finally says. 

Quinn grimaces, closes his eyes and shakes his head. 

Carrie must see the hopelessness of getting him to do anything at the moment and instead of arguing she starts driving.

He thinks the drive is short but knows he wasn’t quite conscious for all of it. Even when they stop he is not really awake, his eyes are open but he’s too busy shivering to do anything else. 

Carrie leaves him for the moment, comes back with towels and a bathrobe. She tugs his shirt off, raising his arms manually for him when he can’t get them to function. He groans at the ache in his chest but she gets it done fast, like ripping off a bandaid, and then covers his bare torso with the gloriously dry robe. 

“Drop your pants,” she demands with a scowl, putting her hand against his cheek to ensure he’s still with it. 

Quinn tries to smile but it comes out as a grimace again. He manages to stay sitting but struggle his way out of his wet jeans, covering up with the robe as Carrie pretends not to watch. 

“Better?” she asks when he’s done. 

Quinn nods, thinks he might not be shivering as violently as before but is still fucking useless, doesn’t think his legs will work yet. 

“Can you get up?” Carrie asks. 

He wants to say yes, wants to just get to his feet. But just thinking of getting out of the car and climbing the stairs from the carpark to Carrie’s place is exhausting. Actually doing it seems near impossible. 

So he shakes his head, leans back and closes his eyes. He hears her sigh and walk away, wonders if she is just going to let him sit there until he can get his own ass up. Really that would be the least embarrassing, he thinks. 

Carrie’s gone for a little while and Quinn takes the time to lie there useless, consolidate his thoughts. Mainly he feels like a pathetic idiot that needed to be rescued from a little rain. He really needs to man up and get back on his feet, fend for himself. 

She finally returns with two cups of coffee, sits down in the drivers seat and offers him a mug. Quinn tries to smile as he takes it, thinks she has figured him out to a certain extent. Coffee is exactly what he needs at this moment, enough to fuel him out of the car and into the house. 

Carrie is quiet, drinks her own coffee until he’s mostly done his and the warmth of the liquid has spread itself through some of his body. 

“What the fuck were you doing?” she finally asks, looking at him with an irritated expression. 

Quinn blinks slowly. “Walking,” he replies. 

Carrie makes an annoyed sound, keeps her eyes on him. “Looks like you walked pretty fucking far,” she answers. 

Quinn nods, isn’t going to lie about it. He can walk however the fuck far he wants, he thinks. 

“For fucks sake Quinn, you’re not made out of steel,” she admonishes him. “What if I hadn’t found you? You’d be a fucking hypothermic heap on the street.” 

“Not your fucking problem,” he manages to grunt. 

He sees the fury spark in her eyes and she glowers at him, her expression tense with irritation. 

“I thought you were done with the lone wolf act,” she snaps. 

Quinn looks at her, soaks in her wrath. It’s exactly what he wants, what he’s used to. He’s pissed off at himself for letting the situation happen, for being a pussy, for not having the strength to walk away. So he welcomes her anger, steeps himself in it to augment his own. 

He doesn’t answer, feels fucking ridiculous sitting in a bathrobe in her car, wonders for the millionth time how a seemingly simple one-off assignment ended up in this situation. He can feel Carrie steaming beside him and he has equal urges to stay and to flee. Unfortunately he doesn’t feel well enough to take off again but also hasn’t quite figured out how to keep a few shreds of self-dignity if he’s going to stay. 

They sit in a stalemated silence for awhile and Quinn can feel her eyes on him, wonders what she is thinking. Eventually she gets out of the car and he thinks she’s going finally leave him for the night, let him deal with his own shit. 

But Carrie comes around to his side and looks at him, still clearly annoyed. 

“You can be a real idiot,” she states. 

Quinn doesn’t answer but thinks she has certainly got that part right. He has been a real fucking idiot in every way lately. 

“Let’s go inside,” she continues, tugging lightly on his hand. 

He looks at her in surprise, thinks it’s unlike her to give in, play nice. He had fully expected to sleep in the car because he wasn’t ready to apologize for his idiocy. But now she’s given him the out, put out the first peace flag. 

Quinn nods, thinks that fighting her now would be a real dick move. He lets her pull him out of the car and is silently grateful for her arm against his back, steadying him up the stairs. 

He thinks it must look absurd - him leaning against Carrie, so slender even now when the baby’s really starting to show. It is exactly who Carrie is though - an impossible, unpredictable mix of vulnerability and strength. 

So right now it’s Carrie who is guiding him up the stairs, keeping him on his still shaky legs. They have to stop twice for him to stay on his feet but eventually she manages to drop him onto his bed where he sinks in, relishes the feeling of lying down. 

“I’m sorry I’m such a dick,” he mumbles into the pillow.

He hears Carrie stop and manages to turn his head just in time to see her tame a small smile and give him her typical frown.

“No you’re not,” she says with a little smirk. “But it’s alright. You’re a good guy, Quinn. Annoying as shit sometimes, but you mean well.”

Quinn smiles, thinks she really does have accurate insight into character, is pleased she recognizes he is trying to do some good. He wants to tell her she’s right, that he is trying to be a better man, that he is fast falling for her and just doesn’t know what to do. But obviously he can’t say any of those things and in the end he finds nothing else to say either. 

When he doesn’t reply Carrie turns to walk out of the room and he realizes he has to say something. 

“You’re too good to me, Carrie,” he mutters, loud enough for her to hear. 

Carrie stops, turns around, gives him a wry look. “I’m not good to anyone, Quinn,” she answers. 

Quinn shrugs, thinks she is mostly right about that. She was only ever good to Brodie, everyone else just fell by the wayside, didn’t factor in. But taking him in, dealing with his shit, that’s something he never expected from her.

“Anyways, thanks,” he says. “It’s more than I deserve.” 

Carrie gives him a studious gaze, seems to consider his statement for a long second. 

“Well you didn’t deserve to die alone in a shithole,” she finally declares. “And you deserve to have someone give a fuck about you.” 

Quinn gives her a doubtful look, wonders where the hell this came from. “Why’s that?” he asks, genuinely unsure. 

Carrie looks at him like he’s stupid, forms a half-smile. 

“I already told you. You’re a good man, Quinn,” she replies as she walks out of the room. “And you’re the kind of idiot who walks ten miles in the pouring rain two weeks after he almost died.”

He knows the second part is true, wonders still about the first. But either way he’s surprised to hear her say it, is more surprised to find that her opinion means so much to him. 

I might fucking love you, Carrie Mathison, he thinks to himself. And now isn’t that an unlikely and fucking disastrous situation. 

\-------------


	10. Carrie V

\-------------  
Carrie V  
\-------------

Carrie opens the door, drops her keys on the table, thinks how it all feels so normal and so strange. Just another day home from the job, tired from the commute, last licks of jazz still in her head. But also the first day back after months off, after all the shit that has been her life. 

She takes a deep breath, tries to talk herself down. It’s a little too much to think about, going from hiding in her house with Quinn to the middle of an operation. Javadi of course, a glitch in his consolidation of power. And of course he insisted on dealing only with her. 

Which is a real mindfuck considering she’s been trying to keep that conniving bastard out of her head for the past months. Because thoughts of Javadi only ever bring her back to her own grief, of the moment he told her that everything was over, that there were no more chances. 

And now he’s back needing help to reconsolidate power when that was the whole fucking point of capturing and killing Brody. Carrie steams as she thinks about it, about this whole thing. She can’t say no or else the whole Javadi play would have been for nothing, all that shit she went through, Brody’s death. But she really doesn’t want to say yes either, to suck it up and work for Lockhart. 

Carrie’s so lost in her thoughts it takes her a few minutes to realize that something feels wrong. She looks around, wonders where Quinn is, thought he’d be right at the door asking her about her first day back. She doesn’t hear him, thinks maybe he went out to grab them some food but when she goes into the kitchen she sees a bag of takeout on the table. 

Carrie wonders if it’s just her, if her intuitions are off after being anxious and depressed for months. But when she sees that the bag only contains her preferred foods and none of his she knows he’s gone. 

She goes upstairs to double check and ‘his’ bedroom is stripped and tidy, everything reset to how it once was. For a moment Carrie wants to cry, feels the emotion in the pit of her stomach. It was only three weeks, she supposes - but she had gotten used to it, would even grudgingly admit to herself that she sometimes liked having him around. 

Rationally she knows he couldn’t stay there forever. It was already hard to explain to Maggie and her dad - she wasn’t the type to take in strays or house wayward friends. And with the baby coming her family was going to be around a lot more. And with her being back at work it was getting more complicated. What if fucking Adal came looking for her one day and found Quinn in a house robe, making coffee. 

For all of those reasons and more it is best that he’s gone. And she knows he must have come to the same conclusions and left so she wouldn’t have to tell him to go. But Carrie still finds herself standing frozen in her now-empty guest room - the room her family wants to turn into a nursery - overcome with waves of sadness, anger, loneliness. 

She stands there dumbly for a few minutes, trying to push back her emotions, trying to remember she never wanted him there in the first place. Too intrusive and concerned, like a fucking mother hen. She wonders what happened to the cold-blooded assassin, the maniac who stabbed Brody through the hand, the man who watched them at her cabin, ready to kill at anytime. 

Finally Carrie convinces herself to leave the room, walks down to the kitchen and throws away the bag of food. She’s no longer hungry and can’t deal with her overly large meal for one of all her favourite dishes - the ghost of Quinn still trying to fatten her up is too much for her right now.

What she would really like is a fucking drink, a double of something raw and hard, something to deaden her emotions. But even that’s not possible, her one consistent coping mechanism fucking taken away from her when she needs it the most. 

“FUCK!” she snaps at everything in general. 

Paces a few steps, tries to sit down and be calm but just ends up standing and pacing again. Tries to remember what she used to do at home after work, comes to the conclusion she used to drink on the few occasions she wasn’t working late into the night. 

“Fuck,” she says again. 

She can’t believe she’s so stricken, she’s always been on her own, it’s the way she’s made. She should be glad he’s gone, out of her space. But all she wants to do is call him, make sure he at least made it back to his shithole. Which is fucking ridiculous, she knows. He’s a big boy, a fucking assassin. 

Carrie glances at the phone, picks it up and sees that there’s a voicemail. Tries to ignore the fact that her heartbeat quickens in anticipation as she dials to hear it. Tries to pretend she’s not disappointed when it’s Maggie, saying she’s going to be by to drop some stuff off and say hi on the big first day back to work. 

Of course as soon as she’s done listening to the voicemail there’s a knock at the door and Maggie walks in, bearing bags of baby crap, harbingers of her near future. 

“Hey Carrie,” she says brightly as she puts the bags down. “How was work?” 

Carrie tenses, was not mentally prepared for a Maggie visit. She groans in her mind, grinds her teeth. She loves her sister, she needs her sister; but she doesn’t love or need her in pre-baby excitement mode.

“Work was fine,” Carrie finally replies, saying the most innocuous thing she can think of. 

“So is that guy still staying here?” Maggie asks. “What’s his name again? Quinn? You never explained his deal. “

Carrie scowls, unable to keep it in. 

“He’s gone so there’s nothing to explain,” she answers. “Anyways I told you, he was here because he got shot and had nowhere else to go.” 

Maggie gives her a funny look and Carrie feels herself start to put up her defensive shields. She isn’t fucking ready to explain Quinn’s place in her life to herself, much less to Maggie.

“Just seems weird he had no one else to rely on,” Maggie continues. 

Now Carrie feels her claws come out, tries to force herself to be calm, to remember it’s Maggie and she means well. 

But meaning well isn’t always enough, Carrie thinks. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she retorts without bothering to hide the anger in her voice. 

Maggie makes an innocent face, tries to backpedal. 

“It’s not supposed to mean anything, Carrie. I was just making an observation. Taking in injured work colleagues just isn’t normally something you do,” she says. 

Carrie has to give Maggie that point at least - taking Quinn in was definitely out of character for her. But she isn’t about to admit anything. 

“Well, like I said, he’s gone so that’s that,” she says flatly. 

Maggie sighs and Carrie knows she’s given in. 

“Okay, well I have to go, dinner’s waiting at home. I just wanted to see how you were and bring you these baby clothes I found in storage,” Maggie says with her best excited aunt-to-be smile. 

Carrie tries to fake a smile but knows it comes off more like a grimace. Baby clothes are not helping her anxiety, just pushing it as the inevitable comes closer. 

“Thanks,” she replies stonily, doing her best not to implode until Maggie leaves. 

She thinks she’s home free when Maggie suddenly turns around again. 

“Are you sure you’re okay, Carrie?” she asks. “You seem a little off.” 

Carrie nearly growls, forces it down with a deep breath. No she’s not okay and no she does not want to talk about it with Maggie. 

“Just tired,” she lies. “I need some sleep.” 

Maggie gives her a critical look and a small shrug. “Well get some sleep then. And make sure you’re taking all your supplements okay?” 

“Yes, of course,” Carrie replies. “Go home Maggie.” 

Finally Maggie really leaves, just before the scream that is building up in her is about to erupt. When the door closes, Carrie breathes it all out, a dragon breath of irritation, of fear, of relief. At least she is alone again, something she knows. But again, the once familiar doesn’t feel quite right now that he’s been around for so long. 

Carrie huffs out another breath, tries not to grit her teeth. She still wants to scream, flail, rant at everything and nothing all at once. And she wants him to be there, wants to call him like they are actually friends, normal ones that do things like call and talk. But they aren’t and they don’t so either she stays at home alone angry and upset or she sucks up her pride and goes to find him. 

Carrie makes an annoyed face, huffs another breath. Tells herself that it’s worth it, that she can do this. 

For a second she wavers but then she finds herself grabbing her car keys. 

“Fuck it,” she mutters as she stalks out the door. 

\-------------

It’s dark when she pulls up to his place and she can already tell he isn’t there just from how she feels - anxious and alone. It’s the same feeling she had the first time she came there to find him bloody and dying and she tries to convince herself that it’s just deja vu, that he really is fine now. 

Carrie takes a deep breath, knocks on the door on the off chance that she’s wrong but she hears nothing. Now what, she asks herself, already frustrated that she’s there, that he isn’t. She could let herself in but she doesn’t want to sit inside with memories of his bloody emaciated body so instead she sits on the stoop, head in her hands. 

She doesn’t know what she’s doing there, has no idea what she’s going to say when he finally comes back. And what if he doesn’t, what if he’s rented a hotel room somewhere. God, this is pathetic, she thinks.

But Carrie doesn’t get up, even long after her ass is sore from sitting on a concrete stair. And she’s still trying to come up with what she’s going to say to him when she hears approaching footsteps. 

There’s something off with his gait and she doesn’t think it’s his lingering injuries. Plus she can smell the booze on him before he even notices her on his stoop. 

And of course seeing him pushes her anxiety forward until Carrie ends up doing what she usually does, talking without thinking first. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she says angrily, “You shouldn’t be drinking. Aren’t you still on a million fucking meds?” 

Quinn snorts, gives her a half-drunken sneer as he approaches. 

“Are you fucking serious, Carrie?” he laughs. “You’re going to tell me when I shouldn’t be drinking?” 

Carrie snaps, the sharpness of his statement too true and raw. She kicks him in the shin like an angry child and scowls in his face. 

“Fuck you,” she spits. “You don’t need to tell me all the things I’ve fucked up.” 

Quinn grimaces, hops a couple unsteady step. “Jesus Carrie!” he growls. “What was that for?” 

“For fucking leaving without saying anything, for not telling me where the fuck you went,” she replies angrily. 

“Well you fucking found me,” he replies testily. “So now you want to play house just because I left? You never wanted me there in the first place Carrie. I was just giving you some space.” 

Carrie seethes, knows there is truth in what he’s saying but it only makes it worse. Because she knows it’s unreasonable for her to be there, to expect anything of him. And she hates it that she’s even there. 

But she doesn’t want to fuck things up forever with Quinn by letting any more of her manic anxiety through. She is with it enough to realize she’s primed with the kind of volatile emotion that usually leads to fucking things up, sometimes irrevocably. And shockingly Carrie manages to force herself to shut up and think before she completely derails the situation. 

Finally she must have been silent for too long and Quinn looks at her funny. 

“What are you doing here, Carrie?” he asks, seemingly no longer angry. 

Carrie takes a breath, looks at him and tells herself to calm the fuck down.

“I don’t know,” she finally answers. “You could have told me you were leaving.” 

Quinn nods, shrugs. “I thought it’d be easier without the conversation,” he replies. 

And in a moment of insight she really feels the loneliness in how Quinn has lived for the past however many years. Life without attachments, vanishing after every job. He’s no better at this shit than she is but he’s been there for her through everything. So instead of losing her shit at him again, Carrie takes another breath, tries to make herself to be rational. 

“We both know I couldn’t live there forever, Carrie,” he adds, reasonably. 

She glares at him for a moment and forces back an angry tear. “Well fuck,” she says. “So you’re just going to live here? With no fucking furniture?”

Quinn laughs, nods. “Yeah, Carrie. That’s what I do,” he replies. “Live in shitholes with no fucking furniture.”

Carrie frowns. “That’s really fucking depressing,” she replies, wondering when she started caring if Quinn’s life was depressing or not. He’s an adult, he makes his own choices, she tells herself. But still, it’s been hard to see him so conflicted lately. 

He nods again in agreement. “Does that mean you don’t want to come in?” he asks sardonically. 

She knows he’s mostly kidding but Carrie shakes her head anxiously anyway. “I can’t go in there, Quinn. Bad memories,” she replies. 

He raises his eyebrows, looks at her oddly again. “You’ve seen a lot worse,” he says. 

Carrie shakes her head again, looks away from him. “It was pretty bad. I thought you were dead,” she mutters. 

Quinn looks surprised, then concerned. Carrie wonders if he thinks she’s being a pussy, then realizes she doesn’t care. 

“Just come back to my place for now,” she says with a sigh. “You can live at this shithole but you don’t have to be here.” 

He looks at her for a long while and her heart freezes, wondering if he’s going to say no, if he moved out because he is trying to get away from her presence in his life. He’s not the only one who’s afraid to reach out, who lives a solitary life.

Finally he grimaces at her and shrugs. “If that’s what you want, Carrie,” he says a bit sadly. 

Carrie lets out a breath she doesn’t know she’s holding, feels an anxious tear slip through her defenses and tries to wipe it away inconspicuously, before Quinn notices. But of course he’s watching her studiously, lets nothing slip by his sharp assassin’s eyes. 

He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her towards him. She only offers minimal resistance, just enough to maintain the illusion that she tried to avoid his embrace. 

“I wasn’t trying to ditch you,” Quinn mutters into her ear. “It was hard to make myself go.” 

Carrie feels the tight ball of anger, anxiety, and fear release in her chest. She hadn’t realized that was what she had been scared of all along - that he would just disappear without a trace, the same as when he suddenly appeared in her life. She’s come to rely on him and that scares the fuck out of her. But of course she doesn’t tell him any of that. 

She stays silent but leans her shoulder into Quinn as they walk to her car, lets his arm sit comfortably around her, feels his body heat spread through her. 

“I’m sorry I kicked you,” she finally says as they get to the car. 

Quinn huffs a laugh. “I should have expected it,” he replies with a wry smile.

Carrie shrugs, shakes free of his embrace, tries to look apologetic. “No, really. I overreacted,” she tries again. 

“You? Overreact?” he answers. “Never.” 

Carrie scowls, gives him her best evil eye. 

“Fuck you Quinn,” she says with mock irritation. “Get in the car. Let’s go home.”


	11. Quinn VI

\-------------  
Quinn VI  
\-------------

Quinn’s been expecting the call for awhile before it finally comes. 

He’s at Carrie’s, cooking spaghetti, waiting for her to get home from work and he answers his phone without looking, sure she is about to tell him she’s staying late for the third night in a row. 

So it’s more than a surprise to hear Adal’s crisp voice on the other side. 

“Peter,” Adal says sharply. “I trust you’ve recovered.” 

Quinn pauses, still wrapping his head around talking to Adal. It’s been awhile. 

“Oh yeah, I’m great,” he replies icily, knowing it’s not true at all. He does feel a shit tonne better but he knows he’s not anywhere near top form. Not even close to average. 

“Good, “ Adal responds. “You’re due in at 0800 tomorrow for a briefing. Be ready to be deployed in short order.” 

And with that Adal hangs up, leaving Quinn staring blankly at his phone, wondering what the fuck is about to happen. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this and an unfamiliar anxiety grips his chest thinking that he could be anywhere in the world at this time the next day. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. He wonders if Carrie knows anything about this, if Adal’s gloated to her about shipping him off. He doubts it, thinks she would have at least mentioned something to him. But then again Carrie is a tough nut to crack, even after all this time. 

And of course, with that thought his phone beeps with a text from Carrie telling him that she is staying late again. Quinn wonders if she’s been avoiding him these last few nights, not wanting to discuss whatever bullshit Adal’s about to send him into. 

“Fuck,” he says again, dumping the half-cooked pasta. He looks around and scowls. It’s been strangely comfortable being there at Carrie’s but they both knew it was coming to an end. 

Quinn swears one more time under his breath and then goes upstairs, packs a bag, tidies up military style. 

He tries not to think about where he’s going to be sent, knows from the past that it’s pointless to stress about it. But in the past he’s only had himself to worry about. Now he has real concerns about being shipped off to another continent, most likely far away from Carrie. As far as Adal can separate them, he figures. 

Quinn walks out the door with just one slow backwards glance, wonders if this is the last he will see of her place. He realizes with dawning distress that her parting words from the morning - “Fuck you too, Quinn” - might be the last he ever gets from her in person. In their lives anything could happen.

As he drives off to pack up his life Quinn thinks sardonically that at least their last interaction was exactly the type of moment he constantly has with Carrie, still so fucking confrontational, always walking the line between friendship and whatever their relationship was. But if he’s sent off to his death tomorrow at least there’s one person that might give a shit about it. 

He can’t tell if that’s a hopeful or depressing thought; if it makes him feel better or not. Regardless, this is his life and he needs to figure his shit out. Back to reality where he doesn’t live with Carrie, where their lives likely take them on different courses. Even if he does quit he can’t just follow her around. 

So I guess that’s it, Quinn thinks as he pulls up to the emptiness of his latest residence. He considers calling Carrie later, at least telling her he’s on the move but knows it won’t happen. Even if he called he wouldn’t be able to tell her any details and it would just be awkward. She’s a soldier too, knows the drill. 

He’s on his own again, has to rely solely on himself, has to get Carrie out of his mind. 

Good fucking luck, he thinks as he packs all of his possessions into one small bag. 

\-------------

Quinn knows he looks a touch disheveled when he walks into Langley the next day. He hadn’t really slept and didn’t have the mental energy to bother with looking sharp. 

He walks up to Adal’s office, trying not to appear like he’s looking everywhere for a wisp of blonde hair. Not that anyone even notices him, but he does have some personal dignity to maintain. 

Adal’s office door is open and he waves Quinn in without taking his eyes off the photographs on his desk. He continues to study the photos for a long moment after Quinn sits then passes them over just as Quinn’s getting testy. 

“Your target,” Adal says simply. “Abu Abdul Rahman al-Bilawi. Given name, Adnan Ismael Najm. Military chief of staff for the Islamic State. There will be a military raid tomorrow in Al-Khalidiya during which you will take out the target. All the pertinent information is in the file. You ship out in three hours.” 

Quinn sits and breathes, thinks that it’s awful fucking risky to send him into the middle of a military raid when he hasn’t fired a weapon in over a month, hasn’t gone through any physicals to re-qualify him for the job. And he knows it’s a test, of whether he will man up and suffer through silently like a proper soldier. Or he can try and quit now, leave this all behind. 

In the end, Quinn can’t say why he picks the file up before walking out the door. Muscle memory, habit, the intriguing idea of suicide by failed mission - all possibilities. 

Not that he wants to die, but it certainly would simplify things. 

\-------------

He already knows he shouldn’t be there and it’s only ten minutes into the job. Military units have surrounded the bunker where al-Bilawi is reported to be and now Quinn is part of a group barging into the dark cavernous space, seeing enemy targets scurry away in all directions. 

Quinn knows it’s time. They got him in and now he has fifteen minutes to find and kill al-Bilawi, the estimated amount of time they can hold the militants shut inside the bunker for him to get the kill. But as he runs, scanning faces, remembering the mental map he’s made towards the innermost sanctum of the bunker, Quinn already feels the burn in his chest, the weakness in his body. 

He forces the doubt aside, focuses on finding his target before he gets away. Turns a corner and knows he’s found the place where their intelligence said al-Bilawi would be. 

Quinn walks quietly up to the door, thinks it’s too quiet considering what’s going on outside. He is silently setting tiny explosives to blow open the door when all of sudden the door slams out at him, completely taking him by surprise. 

Quinn is knocked to the ground with a swift kick to his chin and he thinks he feels a couple of loose teeth as he groans and grabs at the leg of his assailant, managing to take the other man down by yanking on his ankle. Then they are on the ground grappling, Quinn trying to figure out if it’s his target between hits to his head that cause his vision to blur. 

From what he can tell, he’s fairly sure it’s al-Bilawi but there’s a solid chance Quinn’s going to the one killed. He’s lost his gun in their wrestling match already and he can feel consciousness swim away each time he takes a punch, his head still reeling from the initial kick.

al-Bilawi is all over him for a moment with a flurry of punches that leave both of them heaving, Quinn dazed on the ground. al-Bilawi stands up and dusts himself off regally, seeming to check himself for serious damage. Quinn forces himself to stay conscious, looks around for any last hopes, sees only smears of blood and shadows. 

Done checking himself over, al-Bilawi leans over to sneer and spit in Quinn’s face and finds himself face-to-face with his own weapon. 

Quinn pulls the trigger with shaky hands, sees half of al-Bilawi’s sneer blown away in a bloody instant. He thinks about fate, about the chances of finding a weapon in the shadows within his reach. It’s then that he realizes his fifteen minutes must be up by now, that he’s supposed to be out so the military guys can come clean up. 

Quinn struggles to his feet, thankful for the adrenaline still pumping through his system, knowing it’s all that’s keeping him going. His head throbs and his vision tingles as he pushes himself towards the exit. Back through the commotion of militants trying to get out of the bunker, trying to stay on his feet as he struggles through the crowd. At least he can still remember his exit route, Quinn thinks - his instincts and training kicking in despite the fog in his head and the weakness in his body. 

He’s surprised to see the door unguarded and militants starting to stream out. Even if his fifteen minutes were up, he figured the military would give him a few minutes leeway - typically the time given for the job was stricter than necessary to ensure that the agent gets out as quickly as possible. So where the hell did the guards go? They had been keeping the militants in the building while Quinn completed his mission. 

He hears his answer before he sees it, an approaching sonic wave that overwhelms his senses and gets his feet moving quicker than he believed possible. In the heat of the moment Quinn barely has time to be thankful for the special ops training ingrained in his reactions before he feels the blast of the incoming missile. And then he’s caught in a giant ball of heat and concussive force, feels himself flying through the air, sees the blackened ground far beneath him. 

\-------------

Buzzing florescent lights, familiar antiseptic smells. His head feels like it may explode, throbs with glowing, growing intensity. His mouth tastes like dry ash, tongue shriveled and parched. But he can feel his legs, his arms, wiggle his fingers and toes so at least he’s got that going for him, he thinks.

It takes him awhile before Quinn works up the energy to open his eyes and see where he’s managed to land himself this time. But when he does, all he sees is another drab military hospital, the usual compliment of nurses and doctors walking by. He closes his eyes, tries to will someone into coming in there to give him some water and almost immediately hears footsteps turn into his room. 

If only everything was that easy, he thinks to himself as he slowly opens his eyes again. 

He can partially see someone at the sink, filling something with water, thinks someone’s been reading his mind. Another fucking blonde, he thinks to himself irritably. Of course. 

But when the blonde stands up, walks towards him, Quinn has to blink twice, and he still doesn’t believe it. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he wheezes through his arid throat. 

Carrie responds with her own ‘what the fuck’ look before handing him the glass of water and letting him chug it down. 

“I was in Iran to meet Javadi,” she replies finally. “What the fuck are you doing here? You aren’t in any fucking condition to be running ops!” 

Quinn grimaces, knows she’s at least right on that point. 

“Carrie, you’re eight months pregnant! You can’t be fucking flying across the world!” he responds instead. With Carrie the best defense was usually offense. 

“You don’t think I fucking know that?” she asks incredulously. “I didn’t have a choice, he would only deal with me in person. You know how Javadi works.”

 “You have a fucking choice, Carrie. You can say no, I won’t endanger the life of my fucking child to deal with a murderous psychopath!” he fires back. 

“Fuck you, Quinn. Like you said no, I won’t fucking go on this suicide mission? You and I both know the fact you’re alive right now is a fucking fluke. Adal meant for you to die in there!” Carrie returns with equal heat. 

And hell is he ever spitting mad, mostly because she’s fucking right. For a moment he wonders how she knows anything about his mission at all, but of course she probably knows everything, more than him. Carrie, if nothing else, is a damned good spy. 

When he doesn’t reply she glares at him like she’s ready to kill him herself, finish Adal’s job. Carrie huffs a breath and he can see she’s internally steaming, thinks to himself how this much stress can’t be good for either her or the baby. 

“And to top it all off, you didn’t even call to tell me you’ve run off to die,” she says, still obviously fuming. “I was just going to find out on a fucking interoffice memo or when they put your fucking star up on the wall?” 

And Quinn has nothing to say to that, thinks that’s exactly how he saw it playing out. But he figured that by then she’d barely give a shit - that he’d be just another footnote in her story, just another dead co-worker she doesn’t bother to think about. 

So he just raises his eyebrows in silent defeat, lets out a deep sigh. 

“So is there anything actually wrong with me?” he finally asks. “I think I’m fine, just a headache. Is that possible?” 

Carrie gives him a scowl, looks annoyed. “Apparently you have a fucking guardian angel. You do seem to be fine. A few burns, cuts - they want to test you for a concussion.” 

Well, that would be pointless, Quinn thinks. It’s pretty obvious to him he’s got a good-sized concussion going but that’s something he’d rather keep to himself at the moment. He’d really just rather leave with Carrie, follow her back to the States, make sure she makes it alright. But that would be impossible, he thinks. Adal already thinks there’s something between them, clearly they can’t fly home together in a company jet. Still, she could probably spring him and get him on a commercial flight. 

“Can’t you just get me out of here?” he asks. “I’m fine, I just need to get on a plane and get the fuck out of here.” 

Carrie frowns again, gives him a studied look. “Your pupils are huge Quinn, you can barely keep your eyes open. I bet your head feels like shit.” 

He doesn’t disagree, thinks it’s payback for the time he couldn’t get her out from the mental hospital. 

“But you can’t stay here. Fucking Adal,” she continues. “Give me a minute.” 

Carrie takes out her phone and dials, waits for a moment and seems to be put through to voicemail. 

“It’s Carrie,” she says tersely. “You won’t believe who I found here in Iraq. I’m bringing him back to the US with me, he needs to see a fucking neurologist. We’re leaving now, we’ll be in transit and out of contact until we’re in the air.” 

With that she hangs up and looks at him with a shrug. 

“Done, “ she says, throwing him a bag. “Put some clothes on.” 

Quinn blinks, momentarily stunned. Finally he gets up, drops his hospital gown and dons the clothes in the bag, thinks she must have planned to spring him all along. 

She smirks when he disrobes in front of her, doesn’t bother to be offended this time, seems to expect it in fact. He realizes he’s covered in gauze, small burns, cuts and huge bruises everywhere on his body and he sees her looking him over, biting her lower lip. 

“Adal’s going to lose his shit when he hears that,” he says, trying to dress quickly now. 

As if on cue, her phone begins to ring. Carrie takes a look at the number and turns it off. 

“Well we can fucking deal with that when we get back. But I’m not leaving here without you and the plane leaves in an hour,” she replies testily. 

Quinn puts up his hands in mock defense. “I’m not arguing here,” he says. “Just stating the obvious.” 

Carrie nods, seems to calm down. “I’m glad you’re not dead, Quinn. But that was a fucking stupid thing to do,” she says.

This time he doesn’t bother arguing, knows he will lose. Instead he just shrugs, thinks that Carrie, of all people, knows what it’s like to be dis-enamored with life to the point of taking unnecessary risks. “I’m full of stupid things,” he finally replies. 

Carrie gives him another look of concern, then turns to walk out of the room. 

“Come on Quinn,” she says with a tired sigh. “We have a plane to catch.” 

\-------------


	12. Carrie VI

\-------------  
Carrie VI  
\-------------

Carrie walks in at Langley, feeling light-footed despite her ever-growing belly. She’s full of kinetic energy, feels just a tint of over-excited nerves but knows it’s under control. It’s been a few weeks since Lockhart gave her Istanbul and she’s still walking on clouds, wondering how the hell it all happened. To get such a prime position from Lockhart, especially knowing how pissed Adal is at her - none of it made much sense. They seemed to grudgingly accept the fact that she’s still the key to their highest-ranked asset in Iran and Carrie figures that’s why she’s going to Turkey. At least it’s something, she thinks. And she gets to pick her own team. 

She steps into her office, picks up her interoffice mail and sees that her request to have Quinn on her team in Istanbul has been denied. 

Fucking Adal, she thinks to herself, instantly turning and walking out the door fuming. 

Carrie strides into Adal’s office, not bothering to knock before opening his door and throwing the paper she’s carrying onto his desk emphatically. 

“What the hell is this?” she asks angrily. 

Adal looks infuriatingly calm, doesn’t bother to even look at the paper. 

“He’s my man, Carrie,” he says. “You know what he is and he isn’t a fucking case officer.” 

Carrie seethes, sneers at Adal. 

“He doesn’t fucking belong to anyone, much less you,” she retorts. “And if you haven’t fucking noticed, he’s not exactly an assassin anymore either.” 

“And who’s fault is that?” Adal sneers back. “Peter has been the perfect soldier right up to the point where he met you.” 

Carrie frowns, wonders if this is true. She hadn’t thought about it like that before, assumed Quinn had always struggled with the job and his demons. And it’s not like he’s ever told her anything about his past, except that he has a kid and a bunch of regrets. 

“You’re bad for him, Carrie,” Adal continues. “Actually you’re a goddamned walking disaster. Istanbul is going to be a shitshow with a headstrong psychotic chief of station who doesn’t understand the purpose of rules. You’ve already destroyed his career, his reputation. Haven’t you done enough?” 

He looks so fucking smug she could punch him in the face, tenses her fist, thinks Adal probably has no problem punching a pregnant woman back. Then again if Adal hit her she has the strong suspicion he wouldn’t be around much longer. She knows Quinn that well at least.

But she resists, literally pulls her punch and, instead, growls in his face. 

“You know what, Adal? Fuck you,” Carrie says venomously. “You’re just pissed because you need me, that you can’t just eliminate every obstacle with a well-placed bullet. We both know Quinn wasn’t supposed to make it out of that bunker, that fucking missile was planned from the start.”

Adal doesn’t respond but the hint of a smirk starts to show in his expression. Carrie impulsively grabs a glass of water off his desk, throws it in his face. 

“So I don’t care who you are, how many lives you control, I’m not going to fucking let you send him off to die,” she spits in his face as he finishes sputtering and wiping the water off. 

And with that she stalks off out of his office in angry satisfaction. Fucking Adal, she thinks. Quinn’s mine. 

\--------------

“Carrie,” Lockhart says with a fake-looking smile. “What can I do for you?” 

Carrie scowls, tries to think before she speaks for once. As much as she dislikes Lockhart, he’s given her the best job she could hope for. And she needs him right now. 

So she takes a breath, slows her thoughts, tries not to sound too aggressive when she speaks. 

“When you gave me Istanbul you said I would be able to pick my own team,” she starts. “And I need Quinn to be on that team. He has an unique skill set and he’s reliable.” 

Lockhart looks at her for a moment and she can’t read his expression, he just looks like a dick as always, she thinks to herself. 

“I said you would have some control over your team. This wasn’t my call, Adal wants Quinn back and he’s Adal’s guy,” Lockhart says with a shrug. “There are plenty of other operatives you can choose from with the same skill set and reliability.” 

“Well I’m making it your call,” Carrie says forcefully. “I want Quinn and I want you to override Adal on it.”

Lockhart groans, rolls his eyes. 

“Why are you doing this Carrie? You have what you want, you can find someone, anyone to replace Quinn. Do you really want to start this with Adal?” he asks. 

Carrie scowls, thinks Lockhart is a fucking coward, always trying to take the easiest way out. 

“I can’t replace Quinn with just anyone. I need someone I know I can trust,” she argues, letting some heat come into her voice. “And we both know he’s been trying to get out of Adal’s unit for some time now, why he was sent to Iraq. If Quinn dies because of all this shit then it will all be on you. Is that what you want? Because we both know that’s what’s going to happen.” 

Lockhart glares at her, she can almost see the steam coming out of his ears.

“And why should I do this for you? I just gave you the opportunity of a lifetime, you can make do with whoever you get,” he replies. 

Carrie glares at him, mentally preps herself for her retort.

“We both know I’m only in Istanbul because of this Javadi thing. After all that bs in Congress? You don’t have any other plays or I wouldn’t be there,” she states plainly. “I put Javadi there with Saul and you got rid of Saul so you’re stuck with me. You need me. And I want Quinn.” 

Lockhart continues to look constipated and irritated but when he doesn’t deny her right away she knows she’s won and presses the issue. 

“Leave him with Adal and either he quits or dies and both ways the CIA loses a valuable asset,” Carrie adds. “Give him to me, get him out of wetwork. He needs something different and I need him in Istanbul. 

Lockhart is grinding his teeth and glares at her as he gives a grudging nod. 

“Fine, you can have Quinn,” he finally says. “But don’t screw this up, Carrie. One misstep from either of you and I will recall you in a heartbeat.” 

Carrie tries to restrain her growing smile as she inhales a victorious breath. 

“Thank you sir,” she says with relief. “You won’t regret this.” 

Lockhart gives her a pissed off look but she is already out of his office, walking away with a spark in her step. 

\-------------

She calls Quinn but gets put through to his voicemail and leaves a quick message telling him to call her. Thinking he may be in the building Carrie walks around, hitting all the likely places even after her back starts complaining about the extra weight she’s toting about. 

Finally she returns to her office defeated and starting to feel emotionally exhausted. The highs and lows of the day wearing off as she wonders where Quinn could be, why he hasn’t called back. He’s been a bit off since he got back from Iraq and she’s been blaming it on the obvious concussion he has yet to admit to. He looks like shit every time she sees him now, bleary-eyed and tense. 

Carrie sighs, thinks she should be worried about Quinn but doesn’t have the time or energy to worry about anything other than the baby and her imminent role of station chief. And fuck him anyways, if he’d just admit to suffering maybe she would try and give a shit but right now she doesn’t have time for his macho act. 

Carrie looks at her belly and sighs again, fights the emotions she can feel coming on. Block, deflect, deny - her new mantra. Anything to keep the flood of sadness, helplessness, self-hatred from overflowing. She almost welcomes the back pain, it keeps her focused on the present. 

And maybe it is just a reaction to a day of surging emotions and angry confrontations but Carrie suddenly feels a bit faint, thinks she must be low on blood sugar. She sits down at the desk, closes her eyes for a moment and tries to release all the tension in her body. 

\-------------

She’s awakened by a hand shaking her shoulder and her startled reaction is to shove her assailant as hard as she can before she even opens her eyes. But by the time she has blinked away the cobwebs Carrie realizes two things - she should recognize his touch by now and she needs to stop freaking out at the feeling of human interaction. 

But it’s too late at the moment and she expects Quinn to be annoyed but when she finally makes eye contact he just stands there looking at her with a concerned expression. 

“Are you alright, Carrie?” he asks finally. 

“Fine,” she replies automatically. “Just a little tired I guess.” 

Quinn keeps looking at her strangely and she feels his eyes on her, thinks it’s making her sweat. 

“Are you sure?” he asks again. “I just had to shake you pretty hard to wake you up. And you are pale as a fucking ghost.” 

Carrie frowns, thinks it’s true she feels like shit. But she’s been stressed and busy, walking around and working with the due date in less than a week. Fueled mostly by a mild manic state, when her mind’s internal energy can keep her running on empty for days. So it was to be expected, she figures. Nothing to be too concerned about - really lately she’s felt like shit more often than not. 

“I’m fine, Quinn,” she says emphatically, making a point to stand up quickly and look at him squarely in the eyes. “So fine I even got Adal to rescind his denial today.” 

Quinn looks at her suspiciously, tilts his head to indicate she’s got his attention. 

“Bullshit,” he says. “He would never give in.” 

“Well, technically I got Lockhart to rescind the denial,” she continues smugly. “So brush up on your Turkish, you’re coming to Istanbul.” 

It’s not like she expected him to jump for joy at her announcement but he didn’t have to look so fucking conflicted about her news. She can see the worry cloud over his eyes, feel the apprehension in his body. 

When he doesn’t respond either way, Carrie starts to feel increasingly exposed and irritated.

“Well, fuck Quinn, if you don’t want to come then just fucking say so,” she says angrily. “You could have saved me the trouble of fighting to get you off Adal’s team. I thought that’s what you wanted.” 

She sees him react to her words, he still looks conflicted but less tense, more defeated.

“Shit, I’m sorry Carrie,” he says. “I don’t know what I want. I think I need to get out of this line of work, it’s fucking with my head.”

“Your concussion is fucking with your head,” she returns. “You’ve been feeling like shit ever since you got back.” 

Quinn scowls. 

“And you haven’t?” he volleys back. “You weren’t sleeping, Carrie. You were fucking passed out.” 

Carrie scowls back, does not want to admit he’s right and she feels like crap - dizzy and sweaty, wobbling slightly as she stands. 

She puts her hands on the desk to steady herself and then she feels an odd sensation, a little burst, a trickle of fluid. Carrie stands quickly and immediately runs out of her office, stumbling awkwardly. 

She hears Quinn follow her, idiotically asking if she’s alright but she’s so focused on making it to the restroom she doesn’t even try to stop him tagging along. By the time she makes it to the door he’s caught up to her and follows her in. 

“Fuck Quinn, a little privacy?” Carrie manages to growl as she locks herself into a stall. 

“I’m not standing around out there wondering if you’ve cracked your head on the floor,” he responds. “I’m staying right here until I know you’re alright.” 

Carrie groans to herself but realizes she has more important matters to tend to. A cursory check confirms her suspicion but also makes her think that something else might be going on, that she hasn’t just been feeling like shit because she’s stressed out. 

And now the fucking dam is about to break on her emotions, she can feel them pounding at the door. Maybe she really fucked every up again, maybe she killed another human being, killed their baby because she was too fucking scared to deal with it. 

Quinn is still standing out there irradiating anger and the last thing she wants is to ask him for help. She’d rather be in a sea of strangers and put her hope on someone anonymously taking her to the hospital. He’s already way too close and the risk of him getting closer is somehow endlessly both terrifying and necessary. 

But he’s there and she’s obviously not going to get by him to some good samaritan strangers so Carrie grits her teeth, sucks up all her anxiety and opens the stall door, stands there half-dressed, pale and bloody. 

Quinn’s body language goes from angry to panicked in an instant as he moves to grab her, tries to sit her down. 

“Shit Carrie, I’ll call an ambulance,” he says, trying to grab for his phone. 

“No ambulance,” she says through clenched teeth.

Quinn looks at her askance but doesn’t bother arguing, just sighs and sets his jaw. He even pops his head out of the door and make sure the coast is clear before helping her stagger to the elevator. Carrie’s with it enough to see the spectacle they are making even though it is thankfully late in the day and there aren’t too many people around. It’s still better than getting her pregnant ass hauled out on a stretcher and bearing the endless silent questioning looks and awkward conversations afterwards, she thinks as the elevator starts to move and a wave of darkness makes her head spin. 

\-------------

Flashes of consciousness, swimming to the surface. In the car, everything’s blurry. She thinks it’s her eyes, realizes it’s their speed. Twice the limit, probably more. At least he’s trained to drive like this, she thinks. 

Quinn’s taut, barbed wire. He grips the wheel fiercely, her hand equally so. She thinks she hears sirens, sees flashes of light in the mirror. He keeps driving, barely looks back. Pulls some evasive maneuvers at an intersection while her vision wavers again. 

“Hold on, Carrie,” she hears from a seemingly far distance. “We’re almost there.” 

\-------------

Bright lights, hard bed. Prodded with cold fingers, incessant questions. Quinn’s voice, frustrated and concerned. He doesn’t know something, sounds fucking upset about it. 

Something feels wrong, pain in her belly. This is it, I really fucked up, she thinks. Great time for fucking regrets, when it’s too late. Same as Brody. Story of her life. 

Quinn asks if she’s going to be okay, sounds fucking frantic. She let him get too attached, wants to keep him, wants to push away too. Doesn’t want his fucking comfort, wants to hurt, to suffer. It’s what she deserves. 

\-------------

He’s sitting on the edge, mindlessly tracing thumb circles into her hand. She floats to the surface, pulls away her hand, feels him jump. 

He says some words, she hears ‘loss of blood’, ‘placental abruption’, ‘emergency surgery’. 

He’s asking if she can hear him, she blinks and nods, wonders if he’s about to tell her the baby’s gone. 

His fingers find hers, she waits for the words. 

“You’re both going to be alright,” he mutters unconvincingly, takes her hand again.

She squeezes back the tears, lets him worry a pattern into her skin. 

\-------------

More concerned looks, familiar hands. Maggie medical babbling at a distance, dad at her bedside. Manages a wan smile for him, he tries to smile back. 

Maggie’s stressed, waving papers, something about consent. Signs forms, tries to get some calm, everyone awash in worry, fear. 

Maggie says not to worry, it’s going to go fine, routine procedure. 

Pain’s gone, replaced with intense queasiness. She leans over, vomits everywhere. Hears Maggie’s emergency voice, dad’s frantic questions. 

Vomits again, heaves over and over. Hears anxious clipped words then nurses arrive, roll her away. 

\--------------

Touches of consciousness, usual beeping, hostile smell. Feels dad, Maggie at the bedside - nervous energy casting a glow. 

Smiles all around, she wonders what happened. Maggie says something, grins brightly, leaves. 

Minutes later she’s back, nurses in tow, something else too. No recognition at first, stunned confusion. It mewls, sputters and howls. A girl.

Put into her arms, bundle of struggling warmth. She sees wisps of red, closes her eyes, fights the tears. 

Waves of disbelief, confusion, incredulity. A tsunami of anxiety sweeps through, sadness, grief, fear. 

There should be love, she thinks distantly, feels nothing. 

Finally other arms cradle the baby, take her away. Then the tears come,  
\-------------

Awake again, fog is lifting. She finally has the clarity to realize she knows the feeling all too well, the clearing of general anesthesia. She remembers it vividly now, waking from the electoshock therapy, the grogginess, the confusion over what’s occurred in the meantime. 

She hears footsteps, someone pacing. Thinks it’s her dad, his nervous energy similar to hers. But when she opens her eyes she sees messy dark hair, tightly clenched fists. 

“Can you stop that?” she wheezes hoarsely. 

Quinn’s visibly startled, jumps a bit before turning around wearing an expression somewhere between concern and relief. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks hurriedly, giving her a glass of water. 

Carrie sips the water, winces as it hits her dry throat. 

“Like shit,” she replies, honest for once. She’s only starting to realize how much pain she’s in, tries to piece together the long broken string of consciousness to figure out what happened.

Quinn sits on the edge of her bed, examines her closely. 

“You’ve been through a lot,” he replies with a worried breath. 

“What the hell happened?” she finally asks. She has a general sense of events but needs to hear it from him, needs confirmation of her half-lucid experience. 

He pauses for a moment and looks away, bites his lip nervously. 

“I can get your sister and your dad, they just went to get some coffee,” he finally answers. 

Carrie frowns, gives him a glare. “I asked you,” she retorts impatiently. 

Quinn breathes in again and for a moment she thinks he’s about to chicken out and leave without answering her question. But the moment passes and he stays perched next to her, absently puts his hand over hers. 

“You were bleeding pretty bad, a placental abruption. They had to do an emergency c-section and things were a little touch and go for awhile there,” he says tersely. “But everything went fine and you’re both okay now.” 

He says the last part like he’s still trying to convince himself that it’s true. She feels his thumb tracing circles again, seemingly looking for reassurance. 

“So it really did happen,” she says, doubt still in her voice. 

Quinn smiles a bit, nods his head. 

“Yeah, it really happened,” he replies. 

Carrie nods acceptingly, tries to will herself to believe it. Rationally she knows it happened but emotionally it’s not there, it doesn’t feel real. But she does remember holding the baby in her half-conscious state.

“She has red hair,” she finally says quietly. 

A tear escapes and she feels Quinn’s eyes follow it as it drips a streak down her cheek. Another follows and she wishes he would just go, leave her to sob in solitude but she knows him better than that. 

He doesn’t reply, stops drawing on her skin. She feels the nervousness in his touch, tries to pull away but he holds on just enough to keep her hand in place. 

“I can’t do this, Quinn,” she says after a long silence. “I don’t feel anything.” 

Quinn looks at her, tense with emotion. He exhales quietly, takes his time before speaking. 

“I know you’re fucking scared, Carrie” he says. “And you’re hurting. You’ve gone through some shit no one should ever have to go through.” 

He pauses and she wonders if the pep talk is over, thinks it’s a pretty poor attempt, even for taciturn Quinn. 

He’s looking at her intently with an expression she can’t read but she avoids his eyes, glances away.

“But I’ve seen you do some shit that’s just incredible,” he continues. “You’re a survivor, Carrie. You can do this for her. And for him.” 

She thinks that’s easy for him to say, he doesn’t know what it’s like in her mind, in her heart. It froze in Iran, turned to ice on that fence, watching Brody die, knowing it was her fault. A part of her hoped the baby would make it melt, start to heal. But it was a fucking terrible choice, hasn’t worked out at all. 

She’s already terrified of her own baby, their kid, their red-headed daughter that of course already looks exceptionally like him. She remembers that much from the fog of consciousness. It’s like God is mocking her, Carrie thinks. She wanted to keep a piece of him and now she has a permanent one, a ever present reminder of the past, all the things she’s fucked up. Like getting Brody killed, like leaving her a fucking single mother. 

It’s all too much, Carrie can feel her emotions start to shut down. System overload, she thinks, her thoughts are pushing manic levels. 

She feels Quinn’s eyes on her, wishes she could just get up and walk out the hospital but her abdomen is still viciously sore from the surgery and obviously Quinn wouldn’t even let her get out of the fucking bed. 

So she forces herself to breathe, tries to stop the wave of anxious thoughts. Work on the things she can control. 

“Carrie? Are you alright?” Quinn asks. 

She frowns, sighs. 

“No, I’m not fucking alright, Quinn,” she states flatly. “But this is my shit to deal with.” 

Quinn scoffs a smile at that, nods in silent agreement. 

“Anyways,” she continues. “Are you or are you not coming with me to Istanbul? You never said.” 

Quinn looks startled, put on the spot. He looks away, grinds his teeth. 

“I don’t think I’d be an asset,” he finally says. “I’m trying to get out of the game. Anyhow. We don’t need to talk about this now, we’ll talk about it when you’re feeling better.” 

Carrie scowls, makes a face. 

“No, I want to know now what I have coming to me,” she says stubbornly. “I need you there with me Quinn, I need someone I can trust.” 

Quinn closes his eyes, puts his hands over his face. She knows she’s using her weakness to her advantage, putting him in a tough position to say no. But it’s for a good cause, she thinks. She does need him in Istanbul and he needs to do something productive other than ticking names off a kill list. 

“You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really need you,” she adds. 

Quinn sighs loudly, opens his eyes and frowns at her.

“Fuck, Carrie,” he says grimly. “How do you always just get your fucking way.”

Carrie manages a small smile, breathes a sigh of relief. At least one thing has worked out for her after all the shit she’s been going through. 

“So you’re coming,” she says, just to make it clear. She doesn’t want any ambiguity when he reneges on it later. 

Quinn scowls. 

“Yeah, I’m fucking coming,” he mutters. 

He looks somewhere between pissed off and resigned. And part of her feels bad for making him do this but again she tells herself it’s the best for both of them, that it will work out in the end. 

“Thanks, Quinn,” she says. “I really needed that.”

He looks a bit surprised, gives her a considered look. 

“You’re going to be okay, Carrie,” he finally says after a long pause. 

Carrie tries to smile, knows it’s not true. She isn’t anywhere close to okay, wonders if she will ever get there again. But it’s easier to just let him believe it so she doesn’t reply, just sits there thinking how not okay everything really is.


	13. Quinn VII

\-------------  
Quinn VII  
\-------------

Quinn’s walking down the hall in Langley swearing silently at the fucking florescent lighting for making his head explode while knowing full well it’s not the lights making his head throb at the moment.

There’s a buzz in the office and it has nothing to do with the overhead lighting. The rumour mill is going full steam, whispers flying about a new opening for chief of station, right in the centre of the action. And a certain name keeps coming up, constantly dropped within his earshot, obvious invitations for his input. 

Of course he doesn’t bite, maintains a stoic poker face even amongst the muttered mentions of child abandonment, the overheard ‘well what do you expect from someone who’s certifiably insane’. 

Quinn grits his teeth, thinks to himself that it’s all still just a rumour, that he doesn’t need to get all worked up about something that may not be true. But he feels it in his gut, just needs confirmation before he lets the ticking IED inside him explode. 

So he strides down the hall, each step propelled with imminent anger even before he hears the wailing of a baby as he approaches her office. And when he gets there it only takes one look to realize he’s too late. 

Carrie is brimming with energy, he can almost see little sparks shooting off of her as she stands leaning on her desk, flipping through files and ignoring the crying baby on the chair. He hasn’t seen her like this in a long time and it’s easy to guess the source of her newfound electric current. 

Quinn frowns, enters without knocking, looks first at Carrie and then at the baby. Even so she still doesn’t bother to notice the kid crying and Quinn ends up standing by the baby seat, rocking it rhythmically until the baby quiets down. 

“She’s probably hungry,” Carrie says, not looking up from her files. “There’s a bottle in the bag.” 

It’s right then that he snaps, lets the IED blow, feels the surge of anger flow from his gut to his head. He slams the door shut and sees Carrie finally look up at him with her ‘what the fuck’ look. 

“Jesus Christ, Carrie! What the hell is wrong with you? If she’s hungry you fucking need to feed her,” he asks through clenched teeth. The anger is flowing and he speaks in short clipped words, trying to keep his voice down. He may be supremely pissed at Carrie but their argument doesn’t need to be broadcast to the rest of the office. 

Carrie glares at him, her energy instantly shifting into barbed anger. “Well thanks for the advice, Quinn. There goes my chance at mom of the year,” she fires at him, still not bothering to look for the bottle even though the kid is back to crying up a storm. 

Quinn can feel his brain about to burst. He’s been doing his best to be understanding but it’s been over a month now and it’s fucking painful to watch, to experience. 

It’s pretty fucking obvious she’s afraid of her own kid, he’d have to be blind not to read her body language, the tenseness in her every time she’s forced to pick baby Frannie up. And he knows it’s fucking PTSD, that she fucking loses Brody every time she looks at her kid. 

So he’s been oscillating between being infuriated and then feeling guilty for getting so angry with Carrie when it’s clear she was right all along, that she really can’t deal with her baby. Of course she figured that out way too late and now he’s stuck looking at the utter detachment in her expression whenever she’s interacting with the kid. 

And if Quinn lets himself think about her for too long the tendrils of sadness creep in - so he fights them off by getting pissed off at her for not dealing with her emotions, for not resolving her conflicted feelings about the past so that she can deal with the present. 

But it’s not until this moment, watching Carrie willfully ignore her screaming baby as she plans out how to completely abandon her altogether, that he feels something snap. 

“Well, fuck Carrie. If abandoning your kid in order to risk your own life blowing people up isn’t getting you nominated for mother of the year then I don’t know what it takes,” he retorts. “I can’t even fucking believe it. It’s true isn’t it?” 

Carrie looks at him sharply and he knows he’s struck a nerve, braces himself for the repercussion. 

And then it doesn’t matter that the door is closed because she’s yelling in his face, her expression somewhere between infuriated and hysterical. 

“What can’t you believe Quinn? That I’d give up the opportunity to be a fucking single working mother to actually go and do my fucking job?” she hollers, causing the pounding in his head to intensify. “To go and kill terrorists and save lives instead of being a fucking nursery rhyme singing, spit-wiping slave to a kid I can’t fucking deal with?” 

Fuck, Quinn thinks, realizing he’s lost the ability to control what he’s about to say. He has never met anyone else that can get such a rise out of him, knows that whatever exists between them is made of an extremely volatile substance, always primed to blow. 

“Maybe you should have fucking thought about that before falling in love with a fucking terrorist and creating a life, Carrie!” he yells right back. “And while you’re at it, please tell me how bombing schools and markets, killing hundreds of civilians to get one fucking terrorist is saving any fucking lives!”

For a moment he is sure she is about to hit him and he wonders if he’ll stop her. 

Part of him feels like he deserves to be smacked but mostly Quinn is relieved he’s actually manned up and let it out. Enough fucking tiptoeing around, she’s clearly nowhere close to facing the real problems here and someone has to try and talk some sense into her. Why he has volunteered himself for that position is just part of his endless frustration with her - Quinn knows he’s doing it to himself, making the choice to actually give a shit about her. And after all these years of not having to attach any emotions to anyone somehow he chooses to care about most infuriating person he’s ever met. 

Carrie surprises both of them by not hitting him but the fury in her expression gives her a manic look, one that scares him.

“Well fuck, Quinn. Just because you’ve become a fucking pansy doesn’t mean we’ve all put our guns away,” she growls in his face. “Someone has to man up, manage the kill list, make sure there aren’t a million other fucking Nazir’s out there brainwashing more American prisoners into fucking ticking time bombs. Torturing them, screwing with their heads until they don’t know who they are anymore. So who’s going to fucking stop them, Quinn? Because it’s not going to fucking stop until we kill them all!” 

Right then he knows he’s lost the game. Carrie is hovering on the edge of losing it and he’s suddenly not angry enough to push her over, stops and considers the consequences. He’s seen her truly lose it and knows she’s dangerously close, he can sense it in her expression, in her pulsating energy. 

So he takes a breath and then another. Forces himself to remember the shit she’s been through, fucking PTSD times ten. Tells himself she’s not herself, she’s shut down and dealing with shit the only way she knows how. Not that it’s alright with him that she’s doing this, abandoning her kid, running away to Afghanistan. But sometimes he forgets he doesn’t really get a say in what Carrie does with her life. That it shouldn’t make him so fucking upset to watch her make bad choices. 

Carrie’s still waiting for his response, probably hoping that he will continue the argument. But he knows he’s done fighting, never had a chance. 

“I don’t know who’s going to stop them all, Carrie,” he replies calmly, quietly. “But it’s not going to be me.” 

Carrie glares at him, still obviously furious. 

“So you’re not coming with me then,” she says accusingly. 

Quinn wonders how she can possibly think he will still come with her, then remembers Carrie is sometimes fucking delusional. But to ask him to sit in a room killing people by remote control in an endless cycle of death and revenge - it was beyond insane. It had been hard enough to commit to Istanbul but the thought of leaving her there alone, with the baby... He always had a protective streak in him. 

But now she’s made it easy. He couldn’t do this even if he wanted to, knows it would be the assignment that pushes him over the edge. He is barely holding on as it is, unsure of everything, of who he is now. 

So he shakes his head, blinks hard and looks her in the eye. 

“You know I can’t do it, Carrie,” he says. “You know where I’m at, I just can’t take it anymore. I’m getting out of the game - I’m halfway there already.” 

Carrie glares at him, looks like she’s about to spill angry tears. He can almost hear her grinding her teeth as her slightly manic eyes scream at him silently. 

“Please don’t make me beg,” she fumes. “I’m sorry I fucking yelled at you. Just please say you’ll come.” 

Quinn shakes his head again, steels himself for the backlash.

“I can’t Carrie. I really fucking can’t,” he says tiredly.

Carrie glares daggers at him, pierces him with darts of anger. 

“Well fuck Quinn. Thanks for bailing when I need you the most,” she fires back sharply. 

He often wonders if Carrie’s fundamentally unable to consider the needs of others and how the fuck she’s gotten this far in life without that ability. Then he recalls spending year after year not considering the needs of anyone other than himself, avoiding people, relationships because it was easier not to give a shit about anyone. Coldly killing his way through life, pretending the nightmares, the permanent agitation, it was all normal. 

He sighs, looks at her pointedly. 

“I know you don’t believe me but if I could do it I would,” he says tersely. “And I wouldn’t do it for anyone else - fuck, I was going to Istanbul and you know how much I want out. But I can’t do it, Carrie. Pansy or not, I know I can’t take it.” 

His admission doesn’t seem to do anything to dull the fire in Carrie’s eyes, she is still giving him a scathing glare as he turns and lets himself out. 

Quinn walks down the hall through a gauntlet of questioning eyes, whispered words. Somehow he’s gone from being a shadow to a topic of office conversation. Fucking Carrie Mathison, he thinks for the millionth time that day. Everything has gone to shit since she appeared in his life and yet he keeps going back for more. He’s convinced there is something in her magnetic field that simultaneously attracts and repels him - it’s the only explanation for how she makes him feel.

He pushes past the curious looks, lets the buzz of the lights cover the wisps of gossip. It’s barely noon but Quinn heads out of the building - he’s done for the day, feels a monster headache coming on. 

\-------------

Two weeks later the headache has yet to go away, plaguing Quinn day and night as his mind whirls through a myriad of shitty options, a fucking horde of worries. He hasn’t seen or heard from Carrie since he left her office the night of their argument, knows she’s both busy in briefings and too stubborn to call him. 

He’s considered calling her, going to see her at least a million times but he knows it will end badly, in an argument, possibly in words that can’t be unsaid. 

It’s hard not to think of her badly for abandoning her kid but Quinn does his best not to be a hypocrite. It’s just so fucking difficult to see how disconnected, broken she is and it’s most evident when she’s with the baby. So he hasn’t gone to see her, make any futile attempts at amends because he can’t bear to watch her suffer. Nor can he stand how fucking hostile she is these days, thinks they haven’t had a conversation that ended in an argument in ages. Not that he doesn’t play his own part in the arguing - Quinn knows he gives as good as he gets, keeps beating his head against the brick wall just for kicks, he thinks. 

So he hasn’t fought it, has let her avoid him, has tried pretending that it’s over, that his time in crazy Carrie Mathison purgatory has finally ended. He can’t believe he’s known her for less than two years - he thinks it’s been the longest year and a half of his life. 

A shitty year and half in many ways but also an awakening of sorts. No one, nothing has made him feel quite so strongly as he has this past little while. Since getting pushed into abandoning his own kid he’s kept the lid on his emotions shut tight, lost in the work, pretending to be a machine.

And that’s why he’s here, Quinn thinks grimly. Because he’s over it, knows he’s never going to rein in his recently freed emotions. At least not when it comes to Carrie. He’s done his best to put her out of his mind the past weeks but still nearly every thought ends up back to her. 

He sees a cab pull up in front of him and soon after lights start to go out in Carrie’s place. Quinn gets out of his car, approaches the taxi, knocks on the cabbie’s window. 

The man looks wary so Quinn takes a hundred bill out of his pocket and puts it up to the window. That grants him instant attention and the cabbie rolls down the window eagerly. 

“This is yours if you take off now,” Quinn says quickly. 

The cabbie looks at him suspiciously, glances back towards Carrie’s house. 

“Is this a set up?” the cabbie asks. “Cause I don’t want any trouble.” 

Quinn shakes his head. “No trouble, just take it and go. I’ll drive her to the airport, I just need to talk to her, you know.” 

He lays it on a bit thick, gives the old ‘us guys know how it is with women’ vibe and the cabbie shrugs, grabs the hundred and drives off just as Carrie’s door is opening. 

She’s just got one small bag, looks like she’s going on a weekend trip, not off to Afghanistan for who knows how long. Carrie locks up then turns and looks surprised, most likely wondering where the fuck her cab had run off to. 

It doesn’t take her long to notice him in the car behind, he can see her scowl in reaction as she realizes the situation and walks up to his window. 

She opens the passenger door, does not look happy to see him. 

“What the fuck, Quinn,” she starts. “Can’t you just leave me alone?” 

Quinn tells himself to breathe, that he knows what’s coming, her ability to turn everything into a confrontation. But that’s exactly what he doesn’t want, what he’s trying to avoid. It’s also what’s been causing most of his headache for the past two weeks - trying to devise a plan to fucking talk to Carrie without blowing his top.

“No, I obviously can’t,” he replies matter-of-factly, refusing to take the bait. “I’m just here to drive you to the airport, Carrie. Then you’ll be in Kabul and possibly never see me again. And...” 

He doesn’t know if he wants to say the last part, knows it gives her the ammunition to torpedo his emotions, exposes himself in a way he isn’t accustomed to. 

Carrie is giving him an impatient look and he can see she’s about to blow him off, call another cab, fight with him until it comes and then leave him standing there sad and angry. 

“And?” she asks, offering him the smallest of chances. 

Quinn still doesn’t want to say it, thinks it sounds pathetic, hopes she doesn’t just laugh in his face. But he doesn’t have much choice now, has window of opportunity fast closing. 

“And I don’t want to leave things so shitty between us,” he finally admits. “I’m fucking worried about you, Carrie. Please just let me drive you to the airport?” 

He can see her consider refusing, the stubborn expression set on her face but she holds off and glares at him for a silent minute before putting her luggage in the car and getting in the passenger seat. 

Quinn breathes a sigh of relief, thinks he hadn’t even expected to get this far. 

They drive in silence for awhile, Carrie looking out the window, Quinn observing her mood, her energy. She seems tense as usual, nerves taut, brain working overtime. He thinks that in all this time he has only seen her relaxed one time, and that was through a fucking telescope. 

Quinn wonders if they would have been happy, living somewhere off the grid with their daughter, lazing away the days pretending to be other people. He doesn’t think so, imagines Carrie would have gone off the wall without anything to occupy her time. Either way it was obviously an unlikely dream but he thinks she may have really believed it was possible. He’s starting to think she did, that she’d found hope in Brody, love and the possibility of a different life. Because he knows she’s crushed, she’s even said it a few times - though mostly she overrides her sadness with anger and denial. 

No wonder the fucking headache won’t leave, he’s been thinking about all the shit she went through because of Brody, the ECT, the self-doubt so strong she almost fucking killed herself. And then all the shit she did to keep Brody alive even after he had so royally fucked her over. Which gets him questioning whether he should have just done it in the first place, put a bullet in Brody’s brain when he had the chance. Quinn knew this line of thinking was both pointless and harmful to his sanity but sometimes he couldn’t help it. 

The whole thing was just too fucked up to think about really. And considering it left him feeling conflicted and angry, he couldn’t begin to imagine what it had done to Carrie. But he can see the results now, see how all of her suffering has caused her to shut down. So of course she’s going to Afghanistan, it’s the furthest she can run. 

He gets it. He fucking hates it but there’s nothing he can do about it. It’s not often he feels so impotent in the face of a problem. A few threats, a good glower and he gets what he wants. Usually. But rarely when it came to Carrie. 

Quinn glances over at Carrie and she’s still staring blankly out the window. He wonders what he can possibly say that won’t piss her off. 

“You alright?” he finally asks, because really it’s all he really wants to know. 

Carrie keeps looking out the window for a few beats then finally turns to glance at him. 

“I’m not sure,” she replies with a quick shake of her head. 

Quinn glances at her again and thinks she looks pale, skinnier than a new mother should be. 

“I’m fucking worried about you,” he mutters without really meaning to. He knows she will be pissed off but it’s like he just can’t help himself. 

And instantly she rises to the occasion, turns and looks at him sharply. 

“If you’re so fucking worried why’d you bail on me?” she asks with a glare. 

Quinn takes a deep breath, reminds himself of his mission. Peace, or at least a ceasefire.

“Look, Carrie. I didn’t come here to fight,” he says calmly. “I just wanted to see you, talk to you before you left.” 

Carrie gives him a look of exasperation, wears her usual air of irritation. But she doesn’t say anything, just gives him a look that clearly says ‘then talk, idiot’.

Quinn wonders what he’s going to say, has never been much of one to think before he speaks. All he knows is he is going to try and be honest in a way that doesn’t make her angry. Which could be impossible, probably is. But this could be his last chance and he’s sick of adding to his list of regrets. 

“I’ve been where you are,” he finally says, slowly. “I had to choose and I chose the job. Because it’s easier not to give a shit - we both know that.” 

He pauses to glance over at her and so far it seems like he’s doing alright, she’s annoyed but not angry. So he goes for broke. 

“But I can’t not give a shit about this. I’ve fucking tried, said to myself let her do what she wants, what’s it to you,” he continues with a shrug. “I just can’t fucking do it, I can’t stop caring about this, about what happens to you. And you seem to fucking hate it so that doesn’t help.” 

Carrie’s scowling at him but still doesn’t interject and he’s surprised she’s been this patient, hasn’t tried to start something yet.

“If going with you would protect you from everything’s that’s coming I would do it. You have to know that was the only reason I was going to Istanbul,” Quinn says, feeling like he’s on a roll. It’s strange to vocalize things he’s only thought about up to now, things he would usually never tell anyone. But he pushes through the impulse to shut up, to stop exposing himself to her. She deserves to at least know part of the truth.

“But now, with Kabul... I can see what’s coming, Carrie,” he continues. “And I can’t protect you from it. I can barely fucking function myself. I mean I’ve pretty much fucked up every op I’ve been on in the last two years. It’s time to get out of the game, or at least get my head straight before I fuck anything else up.” 

Carrie’s still scowling at him when he finishes but she doesn’t look pissed off so he counts that as a victory. He wonders if she’s going to say anything or if they’re destined to ride in awkward silence for the rest of the drive.

“Adal said it’s because of me,” she finally says after a long while. 

Quinn raises his eyebrows, but isn’t really surprised. In a way it’s true after all. Working with Carrie inexplicably helped him find his own humanity, question his path. And since then he hasn’t been the same. 

“Is it?” she asks when he doesn’t reply. 

Quinn thinks, can’t figure out what to say. 

“Well, in a way, I guess,” he finally answers. 

Carrie huffs, shakes her head a bit. 

“Well fuck. I’m sorry I fucked everything up,” she says quietly. “I’m like fucking King Midas except everything I touch turns to shit.” 

Quinn frowns, looks over. Carrie is back to looking out the window and he knows the conversation is over. But it’s more than he expected so he counts it as a win, drives the last few miles out to the airport thinking how hard it is to let her go. 

\------------

At the airport he parks without discussing it with her, follows her in. She doesn’t have anything to check, just a small carry-on with the bare essentials of her life. And of course he knows exactly how that is, lived like that for twelve years. But he hates watching her do it, fall slave to the killing machine. 

Quinn walks her towards the security zone, tries to evaluate how awkward it would be to wrap her up in a goodbye hug. If this is the last he ever sees of her he wants the moment to count. But too risky, he thinks. Doesn’t want to upset the delicate balance of her mood just as she’s leaving. 

They stop before she crosses into the passenger-only area, stand facing each other with an air of anticipation between them. 

And just as Quinn is about to say goodbye Carrie surprises him by extending her arms and pulling him towards her. She rests her head against his chest and he can feel her breath through his shirt as he puts his arms around her, notices she’s shaking a bit. 

She lets go after a few intense breaths and gives him a sharp sideways look. 

“Take care of yourself, Quinn,” she finally says. 

Quinn nods, feels a half a smile escape. “You too, Carrie,” he says. “Remember who you are. Don’t lose yourself to the mission.” 

Carrie gives him one last look of mock-irritation and turns to stand in the security zone line-up. He continues standing there for a moment, still feels the ghost of her on his sternum. Then finally Quinn turns to leave, uncomfortable watching her go. 

But he’s only gone a few steps when he hears hurried footsteps behind him, feels a familiar hand on his shoulder. 

Quinn turns and Carrie has an enigmatic expression on her face, one he’s not sure he’s seen before. Before he has time to register what’s happening she reaches up and pulls him into a kiss - short but sweet, chaste yet intense. It’s over as suddenly as it starts and then Carrie gives him an unreadable shrug. 

“Thanks, Quinn,” she says. “For trying.” 

And with that she turns and walks off, passes out of his sight - but definitely not out of his mind.


	14. Carrie VII

\-------------  
Carrie VII  
\-------------

Carrie is three drinks in and somewhere over the Atlantic before she lets herself feel anything. The lead up to leaving, the endless briefings and arguments with her family has been fueled by a familiar manic energy. She has missed the rapid-fire thinking, the piqued emotional set, had been down on the low end of her mood scale for a long time. But also she distantly realizes it’s the manic edge, the quick irritation and her hyper focus on escaping her situation that has gotten everyone in her life fucking pissed at her yet again. 

And now she’s escaping from everything and everyone, getting back into the field, away from all the shit of the past three years. An image of Frannie flashes in her mind and Carrie feels her mental scar - it leaves her with a deep freeze in her gut, instant emotional numbing.

Carrie thinks no one can ever understand the guilt, the helplessness, the despair she went though, not even herself. Mostly because she has avoided thinking about it as much as she can. There’s no stopping the dreams though; nor the thoughts that come around whenever she is with Frannie. It’s why she has to leave, facing her emotions is far beyond her at the moment, she can barely deal with her day to day existence as it is. 

The Kabul thing was pure fucking luck. A hardship position right in the action, something she can easily lose herself in. It was exactly what she was looking for. And at a time when she is the highest ranking officer with extensive experience in Afghanistan. At least she had one thing going for her she thinks. 

So she threw all her focus on it, reading briefs deep into the night, imagining being on the ground there, away from her fucking life. And it helped, gave her something to think about other than the mess she has made, the fuck up currently defining her existence. 

She hadn’t expected to feel so fucking alone though. With everyone’s eyes on her, calling her out as a bad mother, a cold-hearted bitch. Her own family, even Quinn, who knows the whole story, fucking judges her for everything. Which is pretty fucking hypocritical considering his past, she thinks. 

So she’s spent the past two weeks being pissed off at him for abandoning her when she needs him the most. Alone in a new position without anyone around she can trust. Carrie had to admit it had stung, can’t believe she pretty much begged him to come and was rejected. 

She’s actually still surprised he didn’t come with her, thought she had him so firmly attached he would have done anything to protect her. Quinn’s weakness, she thinks, is that he’s fundamentally a good man. And she had done her best to use that against him, her usual tactic when she really needed something. But he was stubborner than she thought, stronger than she realized. 

For a second Carrie has a flashback to kissing him, cringes mentally at her impulsive move, berates herself for doing such an fucking idiotic thing on a whim. It’s the downside to the energy, well that and the constant state of irritation she’s been in. But standing in line, she had felt a moment of revelation, realized she wouldn’t be getting on a plane if it wasn’t for him. His stubborn asshole self had pushed her to at least escape the house, deal with her life - if only to an extent. 

But now she’s aghast, thinks of all the complications it could create with Quinn. Not that it wasn’t already fucking complicated between them. 

But then again he’s the one who fucking ditched her in the first place and she doesn’t need to surround herself with pansies, quitters. If he didn’t have the balls for the fight anymore than good riddance, she thinks. His recent attitude wasn’t going to get the job done. And she was over his blatant concern for her, was never really comfortable with it in the first place. 

Carrie orders another drink and then a fifth. What the hell, she thinks. It’s been awhile since she’s had the opportunity to indulge in her coping mechanism of choice. 

The effects of the booze were halfway to knocking her out when another drink arrives at her seat, the flight attendant playing bartender, saying her drink had been bought by the man across the aisle from her. 

Carrie takes a look and her admirer from across the aisle looks to be a Wall Street type, has asshole written all over his expression. He makes deliberate eye contact with her before obviously giving her the once over, then raising his drink to cheers with her. 

Part of her wants to pitch the drink right back into his smarmy face, cause a scene and embarrass the shit out the guy. But the other part is saying something else altogether, is remembering another coping mechanism she’s nearly forgotten about. And just the thought of it pushes her internal energy into overdrive, tells her she should sit tight, breath deep and slam some meds. 

Yet the familiar buzz, the slight amplification of every thought, every sensation. It’s been missing for a long time - she’s been sitting in depression for so long now. Thankfully the hypomania has shown up at a useful time, fueling the entire lead up to leaving for Kabul. Right up to idiotically kissing Quinn and then fucking slamming back drinks to forget about her actions. 

Jesus. Why the fuck could she not get him out of her head? She’s never been one to get too attached to anyone - it’s easier than wondering why people desert her as soon as she becomes too much for them. Now Quinn’s the second guy she can’t shake from her head in the last few years. She attributes it to being mentally weak, probably from having her foundations shaken by Brody that first year. What else could explain forgiving him for his actions, for the shit he did to her? 

Latent anger mixes with her constant stream of guilt and cycles through her head rapidly until Carrie can’t sit still any longer, drains her drink and lurches out of her seat. The guy across the aisle gives her another once over and this time she reciprocates the look, nods her head and walks towards the lavatory. 

Carrie senses the guy get up after she’s well down the aisle, knew he would be following her in quick succession. She’s offered the mile-high dream to other pretty assholes before and has never been rejected. She knows she can count on it now for a moment of mindless action, something to make her feel alive, make her forget her problems if only for a few cramped minutes. 

Carrie lets herself into the lavatory and waits until Mr. Wall Street slides in a few minutes later. He opens his mouth to speak but she shuts it for him with her hand, shakes her head and gives him the shh sign. Thankfully he is agreeable - she doesn’t think she could bear hearing this guy speak, doesn’t want him to be anything but a release of pent of energy. The exact definition of using a guy, she thinks - but then again he appears happy to be used. 

They’re both more than a little drunk and he’s ready right away, has clearly been envisioning the moment already. Carrie’s equally disgusted and elated, wants to get right into it, needs to have that a moment of pure physicality.

But her mind is still going non-stop, searching for ways around the ever-present guilt. Never takes a break, she just can’t stop thinking even as the Wall Street guy climaxes, leers at her, and then leaves. And right then Carrie realizes dully that her old go-to friend, anonymous sex, had failed to produce any positive results - no magical moment of mindless fucking. Her stupid brain refused to stop going, oscillating from the relief and nervous excitement of finally being on the way to Kabul to the endless guilt of running away to the feelings of abandonment she knows she has no right to feel. 

Carrie quietly exits the lavatory and sits in a vacant seat in the back row, looks out the window. She is taut like live wire, thinks she should go take her meds but doesn’t want to go back to her seat. So instead she just sits there, tensely drumming her fingers, tapping her toes, thinking too many thoughts. 

\-------------

It’s night when she arrives in Kabul and Carrie hurries off the plane, tries to escape making eye contact with Wall Street. No need to reconsider her decisions, what’s done is done, she thinks. Just take the fucking pills and get off the little episode she’s been on. It hasn’t even given her the euphoria of real mania, more a fucking mixed episode, hypomanic but still carrying the same old depression around. 

But she doesn’t need any more regrets, leaves the past in the past. Kabul is a new start, a fresh take, a clear way of delineating her post-Brody life. And she’s here alone, no Saul, no Quinn, no one to back her up. 

Carrie exits straight onto the tarmac, breathes in a thick lungful of Afghani air. She’s greeted by a rumpled older male who introduces himself as one of her new case officers and he shows her to a dirty SUV. 

The guy seems antsy, as if waiting for a quiz. At first he tries to make small talk, talk shop but Carrie doesn’t bother to respond after the first question even though she knows it will instantly give her a reputation. She’s done with human interaction at the moment, feels prickly when she’s around anyone. 

So he keeps glancing at her even though Carrie’s busy looking out the window, trying to make out her environment through the darkness. And she knows he is forming an opinion about her, and not a good one. But Carrie’s too caught up in her mind, trying her hardest not to think all the things she wants to think - that she is alone in Kabul with no one she trusts, being escorted by a moron that already thinks she’s a bitch. That she’d feel a lot fucking safer if it was Quinn driving the car - well, maybe not now that she complicated her fucking situation with Quinn. 

Carrie’s never really been the type for regrets but lately she’s been fucking drowning in them, revisits them all in her overactive mind as they make their way towards the Embassy.

\--------------

Her quarters are decent but sterile, standard US government issue. Carrie kicks off her shoes and digs through her bag for her pills, slams a couple back and then runs the shower. She needs something to tamp down her over-excited nervous system, thinks a blast of hot water will help her feel more relaxed, cleansed of her poor choices, impulsive behaviour. 

The water is nearly scalding but it feels incredible on her tight muscles, beats on her shoulders, forces her to release some tension, relax. But letting her guard down also reminds her why she’s so tense in the first place - she’s in Afghanistan, is the fucking chief of station, in charge of all this shit. It’s what she wanted, exactly what she was looking for and she knows she will be fucking good at this job, will hunt down terrorists with absolute tenacity. 

The hot water keeps pounding on her neck and Carrie thinks she could stand there forever, run out the embassy’s entire hot water supply. The thought of getting out of the shower, going to sleep and facing her new life is suddenly daunting, anxiety-ridden. She thinks how alone she is, that there’s no one in this country she can currently rely on. 

She hadn’t expected to feel this way, has never had a problem with being alone - it kind of came with the condition, people just often couldn’t deal with her. But since she joined the CIA she’s always had Saul, there to back her up. And with Saul gone, she’s had Quinn to rely on. 

But now, now there’s no one, not even her family. Physically, mentally, emotionally - she’s on her own in every way now. Carrie knows she’s made this for herself but that doesn’t stop the anxiety. She feels tears running down her face, lets them mix with the hot water, tries to wash them away. 

This is what you wanted, she tells herself. This is exactly what you asked for. But it just makes things worse - reminds her of how pissed off her sister is and how she fucked things up with Quinn because it had fucking hurt when he drew the line, refused to come. 

You get what you deserve, Carrie thinks to herself. And she can’t argue that she doesn’t deserve to be alone, after everything that’s happened. So now it’s time to suck it up, cut the cord with her past. She’s the fucking station chief now, has a job to do and it can’t be done from the shower, feeling fucking sorry for herself. She’s here to kill terrorists, not to run away from all the shit she’s made. 

Yeah right, Carrie thinks as she turns off the water. She wonders if she will be able to pretend to herself long enough to make it the truth. 

\-------------

Carrie’s in bed still thinking too many thoughts, feeling overly anxious and mentally willing her meds to kick in when she hears a phone ring. She turns on the light, sees it’s not the house phone and follows the ringing to a cell phone she’s never seen before. Must be her new contact, she thinks. Wonders who could be calling it in the middle of the night - there can’t be many people that have the number yet. Thinks it’s probably Lockhart, hopes it’s not something that needs to be dealt with immediately. 

“Yes?” she answers tensely. 

Whoever’s calling doesn’t speak right away and she’s about to hang up when she figures it out. 

“How the hell did you get this number, Quinn?” she asks tiredly. “I don’t even know it.” 

“I can be resourceful when I need to be,” Quinn answers. 

Carrie would never admit the feeling of relief she gets when she hears his voice, relief that instantly turns to nerves as she remembers her impulsive move at the airport. It was the hypomania acting and she didn’t want to think about it, much less talk about it with Quinn. 

“So what do you want?” she asks with an edge, thinks it will put him off bringing up any awkward topics. She does not want to discuss Quinn’s feelings, wonders for the millionth time how the cold-blooded assassin turned into an overly-concerned friend.

“Just wanted to check you got in okay,” he finally replies.

“Goddamn it, Quinn. I don’t need checking on,” Carrie fires back, mostly because she’s annoyed at herself for feeling comforted by his call. She’s relied on him for too long, now she has to cut the cord, be a fucking big girl and survive on her own. 

He doesn’t answer for a long time and she waits for him to hang up, fighting the urge to take back her words. 

After what seems like an eternity he sighs. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says resignedly. “It’s for me, not you. But you seem to be just the same. So I guess that’s it.” 

Carrie knows he’s about to hang up for good and part of her wants exactly that. Because then it would be over - she’d likely never see nor hear of him ever again. He’d leave the CIA and disappear, she has no doubt about it. And she’d just be left with the vague memory of someone who once gave a shit about her. 

She hates herself for wishing he was here in Kabul with her, wants to hurt herself by letting him hang up.

“No, wait,” she finally says. “I’m sorry. Don’t hang up.”

Quinn doesn’t hang up but he doesn’t say anything either. She can hear him breathing and she closes her eyes, breathes with him for a minute, wonders what the hell to say to him. It’s not often she cares what someone thinks of her but somewhere along the way Quinn’s opinion started to matter. 

So although it is hard, almost excruciating, she tells him the actual truth.

“I know I fucked everything up,” she says. “And I know it looks like I’m running away from it all. But I had to, Quinn. I couldn’t deal with it, I still can’t. It’s just too fucking... big. Raw. I just... I just can’t. And everyone thinks I’m a fucking horrible person because of it, even you. And you even know the real story, all of it. So maybe it’s true. I made all those decisions. I’m fucking heartless and I deserve to be here alone.” 

Quinn sighs again, doesn’t reply right away. Carrie can feel her heart fluttering, can’t quite believe she admitted to some of her thoughts, the ones behind her emotional armor. 

“Carrie, the shit you’ve gone through just in the time that I’ve known you is just fucking unbelievable,” he finally says. “And sometimes I forget that. But I’m fucking scared for you. I know what happens if you keep shutting away that part of yourself. And I know I can’t do anything about it.” 

She makes herself listen to his words, fights the impulse to just shut down the conversation now that she’s revealed too much of herself. At least he hasn’t brought up the kiss, and she feels less alone with him on the line. 

“I’m scared too,” she admits with an angry huff. “I haven’t got anyone here to rely on.” 

“In a week your staff will be lining up to take a bullet for you,” Quinn replies. “You are really fucking good at your job, Carrie. Sometimes too good.” 

Carrie frowns, knows Quinn isn’t the type to give her false platitudes. But lately she hasn’t felt good at anything, just constantly fucking everything up until she had to escape from the mess she had made. 

“Get some rest, Carrie,” he says when she doesn’t reply. “Goodnight.” 

“Wait,” she says, not quite ready to let him go. She knows after this conversation her old existence is over, their relationship possibly done.

“Thanks. And sorry. For everything,” she adds.

Again he doesn’t reply for awhile but stays on the line with her. 

“Take care of yourself, Carrie,” he finally says. “You know you can always call.” 

And with that he hangs up before she has a chance to reply, leaves her upset yet strangely content.

Carrie knows she won’t call him but can’t deny the feeling of reassurance knowing he’d be there if she did. And with her anxiety-level finally reduced, she lays her head down and falls asleep, ready to face her new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Well mostly. Q and C each get an epilogue and then it's on to Islamabad. It's been a fun one to write but it was never meant to get so long - thanks for coming along for the ride!


	15. Q.Epilogue

\-----------------  
Q.Epilogue  
\-----------------

Quinn walks into the interview room, feels the ball of anxiety sitting in his stomach. This could be it, the last step to escape twelve years of death. 

The interviewer welcomes him and immediately he knows something is wrong from the insincere smile on her face. 

“Good to see you again, Peter,” she says in a schoolteacherish way. He instantly has a thought of strangling her, then realizes that’s not going to help his cause. 

“I see this is your final interview and I must say you seem adamant about leaving us. Which is, of course, unfortunate from our point of view,” she continues. 

Quinn nods cautiously, waits for a question. There’s a tenseness in the air and he senses that something is not quite right. 

“You see, we just aren’t quite ready to let you go,” the woman says. “We’d like to offer you a compromise.” 

Quinn takes a deep breath, tries to talk himself down. He can’t lose his shit or they’ll use it against him, say he’s a danger to the public. It’s a double-edged sword, exactly what the fucking CIA does best. 

“That wasn’t the deal,” he says, as calmly as he can. 

The woman looks him at him with a sickly sweet smile. 

“Deal changed, Peter,” she says. “We are requiring that you put some more thought into your decision, give it some time. We will, however, allow you to leave Adal’s group. Choose any position at your experience level.” 

Quinn grinds his teeth, tries to fight the impulse to argue his case. He knows it’s hopeless but he can’t help himself. 

“What changed?” he asks. “I was on my way out, why now?” 

The interviewer gives him another fake smile, looks down at the file in front of her. 

“Well, management seems to think that your recent desire to go to Istanbul as a case officer shows that you are not as done as you say,” she says. 

Quinn groans, wonders how Carrie can still be complicating his life while residing half a world away. 

“Why did you want to go to Istanbul?” she asks. 

“I didn’t want to go to Istanbul,” he replies. 

“But you accepted the transfer there. You were going to go,” she counters. 

“The circumstances were different then,” he says. 

“Yes. And then Carrie Mathison jumped ship and you decided not to follow. Even though she was the only reason you were going to Istanbul,” she replies. 

Quinn winces internally, wonders if he should bother countering her statement. It was pretty much true, he thinks. He just doesn’t want it on record. 

“What is your relationship with Ms. Mathison?” the interviewer asks, no longer playing the cheerful schoolteacher. 

“I used to work with her,” he replies dryly. 

“And that’s all?” 

“Yes, that’s all. And I don’t see how this has anything to do with me quitting my job,” he says, as calmly as he can. 

“The general thinking is that working with Ms. Mathison has affected your judgement about your situation,” she replies. “Has it?”

“General thinking?” he replies. “You mean Adal thinks so.” 

She smiles sickly sweetly again. “Yes. And your records back his viewpoint.” 

“How so?” Quinn asks, wondering why he bothers. There’s no fighting the CIA, you don’t ever get what you want. Well unless you’re Carrie fucking Mathison, he thinks irritably. 

“You stayed on with her operation much longer than expected. Adal feels your performance suffered under in this time,” she answers. “And you have been injured on the job quite a few times recently.” 

“Maybe that’s why I need to get out of here,” he growls in return. “And this has nothing to do with Carrie. I just need to get out before I die for something I don’t even believe in anymore.”

The woman doesn’t stop smiling and he can’t help but want to drain the life out of her as she continues talking.

“And that’s why you are being given your choice of a position. Something less... dangerous than the work you’ve done. One year, a new position, try something different. See if it works. And, if not, we would consider your exit again at that time.”

He has to admit she’s at least partially right, working with Carrie definitely fucked with his head. And his heart. He’s been doing his best to keep her out of his mind, not wondering about Kabul. 

But he’s not fucking happy about the upcoming enforced year of labour, even with the right to pick his position. He is done with this shit, can’t believe he can’t just leave. Thinks he could try but it would likely take too much effort and bloodshed to make it worthwhile.    
This is what you signed up for, he thinks. And it had all gone relatively well until Carrie showed up in his life. 

He shrugs in resignation. “Arguing would be pointless wouldn’t it,” he says.

“Here are the postings available,” she replies smugly, passing him a sheet of paper. 

The woman gives him the same irritating smile and Quinn pictures strangling her yet again as he picks up his coat and walks out the door. 

\-------------

He’s halfway out the building, primed to blow when he feels a presence behind his shoulder, turns to see Dar Adal standing behind him. Adal is wearing a satisfied sneer, nods at the paper in Quinn’s hand. 

“Have you chosen your new position yet, Peter?” he asks. “Or do you need some time to consider this turn of events?”

Quinn thinks this is it, that in a different setting he would have his hands on Adal’s throat right now. He wonders at his sudden desire to kill again, thinks he would have little remorse killing many of his colleagues. And what does that say about his state of mind? 

“Fuck you, Adal,” he says instead. 

He looks at the paper in his hand just so he doesn’t have to look at Adal. It doesn’t fucking matter where he goes now, he’s just killing time now, a lame duck agent that doesn’t give a fuck. So anywhere, just far from fucking Langley Virginia, away from all this bullshit.

One listing on the piece of paper immediately jumps out at him. 

Islamabad. 

Pakistan is far, he thinks. And Pakistan is close.

Close enough to keep an eye out, know what’s happening with other stations in the region. 

He can’t believe he’s allowing himself this train of thought. It’s time to let go, he tells himself for the millionth time since she left. 

And he wants to blame it on fate, whatever sent him towards her in the first place. But if he’s honest with himself he knows that now it’s just him. There are a lot of places he could go, all far away from Kabul.

Quinn looks up, glares into Adal’s gloating face. 

“Islamabad,” he says. 

That wipes the smarmy smile off Adal’s face and his expression darkens quickly. 

“You’re making a bad choice, Peter,” he says. “She’s going to get you killed.” 

“Funny, I thought it was you trying to get me killed,” Quinn retorts. “And this has nothing to do with Carrie.” 

“You expect me to believe that?” Adal sneers. “You’re following her around like a fucking puppy dog, Peter. When I gave you this assignment I didn’t expect you to lose your balls.” 

The worst part is Adal’s mostly right, Quinn thinks. In any other situation he would be telling himself the same thing. She’s terrible for you, does your fucking head in on a good day. 

But, regardless, he’s seen the list and he knows there’s no other choice. 

“I’m not your man anymore,” he says. “So fuck right off.” 

Adal doesn’t follow as Quinn walks away, visualizing various ways to eviscerate his former boss. Fucking CIA, he thinks. They’re never going to fucking let him go.

He finally exits the building, gets in his car and makes it to the highway before he lets his emotions explode through his body. For a moment he feels a strong impulse to quickly swerve left and be T-boned to oblivion by the vehicle in the next lane, then thinks a cliff would better, no other injured parties, no time-consuming highway cleanup. 

Or just a nice clean bullet to the brain, give himself the gift he’s given so many others in the past. It’s probably more than he deserves, Quinn thinks. 

It scares him a bit that he’s thinking so calmly about suicide, has never let himself get to this point before. Quinn’s no stranger to emotional lows but has felt never quite this hopeless. And for a moment he sees Carrie in his mind, with a bottle of pills and another of vodka. 

He wonders what she will think when she finds out, if she’ll think him a coward. Pictures her yelling at him for giving up when she’s been through so much more shit than he’s ever faced. 

Quinn shakes his head, focuses on the road. Clears the destructive idle thoughts out of his mind. Tries to force some rationalism into his brain.

One year, he thinks to himself. Fucking shitty but doable. And enough time to see how things go, to see how she’s doing. 

Again, he can’t believe he’s letting himself think about her, it’s been his main focus to get Carrie out of his mind ever since she left. And he had been doing a relatively good job of it, he thought. 

But now. Well, he thinks she just rescued him from his suicidal thoughts a moment ago and if she’s all that’s keeping him tied to his life maybe he shouldn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be so bad to at least get away from here, he realizes. Maybe clear his head a bit. 

Islamabad, Quinn thinks, nodding to himself wearily. It’s close enough.


	16. C.Epilogue

C.Epilogue

Carrie walks into her office, sits down tiredly and breathes a lungful of exhausted satisfaction. She hasn’t slept in a day, spent the extra hours vetting Sandy’s latest source so that they could authorize the drone that just finished taking out the second in command of the Haqqani network. 

She should get some sleep now that the mission is compete but she’s on edge, the adrenaline of her latest successful drone attack still coursing through her veins. She had been skeptical of Sandy’s new source to start but everything has checked out so far. Though there’s something in the back of her mind that thinks there’s something she’s missing. 

Carrie frowns, tries to see the nebulous idea forming in her mind but is impeded by exhaustion and lack of calories. Frustrated, she shakes her head and picks up the latest CIA briefing and interoffice memo from her inbox, trying to distract herself from the niggling feeling she keeps on feeling. 

She scans the memo, sees nothing of real interest - just the new postings in the region, who’s been assigned where. She’s about to put the paper down when she does a mental double-take and looks at it again. 

Carrie reads the memo three more times to confirm she’s not seeing things and then tells herself to calm the fuck down. 

Rationally there’s no reason she should be upset about this, she tells herself. That chapter of her life is over, it’s why she is in Kabul in the first place. So why does just seeing his name on a fucking piece of paper still affect her? 

Islamabad. What the fuck. He tells her he’s ready to quit, halfway out the door and now he’s in fucking Pakistan? She thinks the message is pretty fucking clear. It wasn’t Kabul, it wasn’t the mission. He quit on her in the end for the same reason everyone quits on her - they just get tired of her shit and can’t take it anymore. 

She doesn’t know why she’s still surprised when this has been happening since college, since her propensity for highs and lows got rid of most opportunities to form long term friendships. But for a while there she had thought it was going to be different with him, right up to the point he gave up on her like everyone else. 

Carrie squeezes her eyes shut and leans back in her chair, tries to push the thoughts out of her mind. She tries to think about something else, anything else. But nothing stops the intrusive thoughts, the idea that he had not only fucking ditched her but he hadn’t even had the balls to leave the CIA afterwards. That she had believed he was sincere in his need to quit - now she thinks it was just a way to get away from her. 

Carrie breathes out a dragon’s breath of irritation, picks up her phone and dials. 

“Hey Sandy, it’s me,” she says, trying to be calm, act normal. “Drop went off without a hitch. Your new intel looks dead on.” 

“You sound like you expected it to be otherwise, Mathison,” Sandy Bachman replies a bit smugly. “I told you my source was good.” 

“Yeah, well you never know right,” Carrie answers. “Sometimes things can be too good to be true.” 

“Yeah well this one isn’t,” Bachman says. “Good as gold.” 

“You’re still not going to tell me anything about the asset?” she asks even though the asset is the last thing on her mind. She needs a way to bring the conversation over to another topic, doesn’t want to show her hand by asking too abruptly. 

“No can do,” he replies, as expected. “But don’t worry, I’ve got it all under control.” 

The conversation is going nowhere and she either needs to speed things up or just hang up and go to sleep. But she knows sleep will never come with her mind so wired so that leaves her little choice. 

“Yeah, you run a tight ship over there,” she says. “I saw on the interoffice you got a new guy on the roster?” 

“Yeah, I think you know him right?” Bachman replies. 

Carrie wonders how he knows already, is sure Quinn is not the name-dropping type. Especially not with her name. And his work on the Brody op wasn’t exactly general knowledge for obvious reasons.

“Yeah, we worked together on an op,” she answers. “How’d you know that?” 

“Well don’t tell him I said this because he doesn’t think I notice. But he fucking perks up anytime I drop your name, just extra... attentive, you know,” Sandy says. “He’s never said anything though. What’s up with that?” 

Carrie frowns, thinks right, of course. So he’s still pissed at her, thinks that’s what Sandy’s been seeing. So why the hell is he so close then? Because she’s pretty fucking sure he could have gone somewhere far away.

“It’s... complicated,” she replies. “And it’s all in the past anyhow.” 

“Yeah well he’s not exactly pleased to be here, if that makes you feel any better,” Sandy says. 

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

“I heard he got forced to make a choice but that’s not official, just grapevine rumour,” Sandy says. “I don’t know why he chose to come here though, I thought I had a dud agent when he first showed up. But turns out he’s been useful to have around, very up on what’s happening in your neck of the woods actually.” 

“On Afghanistan?” Carrie asks. “That’s weird, it’s definitely not his field of specialty.” 

“Yeah, like I said, he tries to be low-key about it but he’s obviously interested in what’s happening with you and your station,” Bachman says. 

“Well, I don’t know what that’s all about,” she replies truthfully. She has no idea what the hell Quinn could be thinking, wonders why the fuck he went there, of all places. And especially now, when she’s been doing a fairly good job of keeping everything from her past out of her head. Brody, Frannie, Saul, Quinn - if she doesn’t think about any of them then she can focus on doing the job, vetting the intel and sending the drones. It’s what she’s been doing ever since she got there, the best coping mechanism she’s found - total denial. 

So she does not want to think about Quinn, because it brings her to the past. And she knows just thinking about him will force her into it, there’s too much history between them now. He’s from her old life, the one left behind. When she asked him to come and he wouldn’t she thought that was it, the cord had finally been cut. She hasn’t heard from him since the phone call when she got to Kabul months ago and had almost managed to stop thinking about him, wondering where he was at, if he was alright. 

“Hey, speak of the devil, here he is,” Sandy says, breaking her out of her reverie. “Do you want to talk to him?” 

Instant panic. Mental alarm bells are ringing in her head, telling her to hang up, telling her to say yes, of course I want to talk to the fucker. And then suddenly she can tell the phone on the other side has changed hands, that Sandy’s no longer on the line. 

She doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long time, waits to see if he will speak first. And clearly Quinn’s waiting for the same thing because there is a long period of silence, dead air. 

Finally, minutes later, he gives in.

“Carrie?” he asks.

“Quinn,” she replies. 

The conversation pauses again. Very loquacious so far, she thinks wryly. 

“Long time,” he says.

“Yeah,” she answers. “You’re in Pakistan?” 

He pauses again and she tries to stay calm. But she forgot how he pushes her buttons, the way he makes her feel sometimes. 

“It’s a long story,” he replies. 

“I bet,” she says, losing her battle with agitation. The old emotions rise to the surface and she finds them as strong as ever, especially the sting of abandonment, betrayal. And Carrie even knows it’s not really his fault, that it’s just the past creeping up on her. She had already felt betrayed by Brody, by Saul, by the CIA before Quinn also cut her out of his life. But her emotions are in control now and she already knows it’s not going to turn out well. 

“I’m sure there’s some reason you could go to Islamabad and not Kabul when I fucking needed you here,” she adds. 

She tries to remember all the shit he did for her, everything he’s been through for her. But all she can feel is the carefully hidden hurt of being ditched yet again, of being hung out to fend for herself one more time.

“You don’t need anyone, Carrie,” Quinn replies darkly. “You seem to be running a very efficient operation over there.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps back. “You know what, fuck you Quinn. You’re right, I’m fucking better off on my own, I can’t rely on anyone anyways.” 

With that Carrie hangs up, knowing she isn’t being fair to him but still reeling from the strong feeling of betrayal. And he’d been the only available victim, target. 

Fucking Quinn. She can’t afford to open up old wounds - just yelling at him on the phone has already gotten her thinking about the past. And she doesn’t want to open that door yet, maybe ever. It’s firmly closed for a reason. 

It’s hard though, she’s been feeling it fighting through - the hurt, the guilt, the sadness. It’s all been lying low, waiting for its opportunity to strike while she’s gotten by on pure determination and tunnel vision. Not letting her think outside of the job, keeping all her thoughts contained with her current mission by working nineteen hours a day and avoiding the dreams that come with sleep. This is her life now, her little sliver of sanity, delicately perched in an underground bunker in Afghanistan. 

Fucking Quinn, somehow lately everything comes back around to him. Sometimes it feels like a repeat of how her life got so entangled in Brody’s, so twisted together neither of them could break free. And likely to be equally disastrous, she thinks. Just thinking about him makes her feel all the things she’s been trying to avoid. 

Her phone rings, breaking her out of her reverie. It’s Sandy and she considers not taking it but she knows he will keep calling if she blows him off. So she picks up the phone wearily, braces herself for the conversation. 

“What the hell was that about?” Sandy asks right off the bat. 

“Oh nothing,” she replies nonchalantly. “Guess he didn’t want to talk.” 

“Actually he looks like you just stabbed him in the heart,” Sandy replies. “I didn’t think the guy had emotions til about thirty seconds ago.” 

Carrie breathes an angry huff, wonders what the hell is going on. If Quinn chose to go to Islamabad over Kabul he should have known she’d be pissed. So what right does he have to be hurt by the truth? 

“Well I don’t know what that’s about,” she says. “How’d he end up in Islamabad anyway? I thought he was on his way out.” 

“You know, the strange thing is I don’t really know either. Langley sent him to me with a heavily redacted bio,” Sandy answers. “I asked around and heard he tried to leave and the brass decided to extend his tour for another year, involuntarily. The weird thing is he chose Islamabad out of all the posts but he obviously doesn’t want to be here. He does the job fine but the guy is like a fucking robot. Unless we’re talking about Afghanistan - like I said before, that seems to spark his interest.”

Carrie thinks, actually listens this time. She feels the pieces start to fall into place now that her anger is dying down, her rational side gaining ground on the emotional. 

“I feel like I’m missing some key info about him,” Sandy continues when she doesn’t reply. “And without it I can’t read the situation.”

Carrie quickly pieces together what Sandy’s told her. That Quinn tried to leave but was forced to choose another position. That he chose Islamabad over other locations he would have had more experience with, places easier to live than Pakistan. And that he is strangely interested in her theatre of operation. 

And then she realizes she knows exactly what Sandy’s missing, feels a queasiness in her gut accompanied by a flutter in her solar plexus. 

It’s the closest he could be without being in her bunker, she thinks. Close enough to always know what’s happening in Kabul. 

Carrie sighs internally. She shouldn’t have flipped out at him earlier but it’s too late to retract her actions. And she could call him but knows she won’t; she can’t yet confront her feelings about him, about all the hurt she has gone through. 

“Don’t sweat it, Sandy. Quinn’s a good guy. You’re lucky to have him,” she says, hanging up before Sandy can reply. 

Well at least it makes sense now, she thinks. And she has to admit to a tingle at the base of her spine, a reminder of something other than hatred and hurt.

Carrie tries to shake him from her head but can’t. Thinks how pissed he must have been to find out he wasn’t allowed to leave. She’s a bit surprised he didn’t just do a runner, take off into the shadows. Or find a more permanent solution. 

It’s not like him to just give in, she thinks. But she is immensely relieved he did, even smiles a bit when she thinks of him playing possum in Pakistan, doing his best to check on her from afar. 

She suddenly has the premonition that his appearance in Islamabad is a sign of sorts, that this is not the last of him in her life. 

There’s more to be played out, she thinks. But at least she still has an ally - she’s not entirely on her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! It's really the end. Keep lookin' for season 4 updates to get you through to next season!


End file.
